Still The Addict
by consultingat221b
Summary: Sherlock Holmes had an addictive personality from a very young age. Even in the present day he struggles with his dangerous self-destructive behavior. This is the story of how people find out, react and help the troubled consulting detective. Johnlock and Sherstrade brotp and other ships may sail. TW: self harm and drug use. Rated T for potential triggers and language.
1. What Happened

_I care way too much for vulnerable Sherlock, it's unhealthy! Anyways, I am trying to not break the characters and it's very tough, but if I give you feels I have accomplished a miracle! I think there are many other fics like this on the internet but I felt like writing it anyway! I think it will be another continuous one because I always get too carried away to write one-shots. This is set after Sherlock has returned but Mary is not living with John yet so he is still in 221b, John and Mary are in the beginning of a relationship. I just thought I would say that to avoid confusion._

_Various trigger warnings for self harm and depression apply. There shouldn't be any for abuse, PTSD, ED's etc but if so i recommend you to not read if you easily get triggered because I do not want to hurt you. I know that sort of spoils some things, but I have to make it really clear because I am not putting any of you at risk. Stay safe, my lovelies._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was fourteen when the idea had first occurred to him. It came into his chaotic mind late one cold, winter night. His loving parents were downstairs in the comfortable living room, snuggling in front of the fire and Mycroft had left to pursue a course at University a few months ago.

He wasn't lonely or sad, he told himself. Sherlock Holmes didn't feel. He was a self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath, and that was what defined him even from a young age. He'd decided to label himself a sociopath when he decided that caring was not an advantage, he realised this when his companion, Redbeard, was put down. He swore to himself then that caring was unimportant and everything his brother had taught him about sentiment was correct. He did not feel.

While lying on his bed he figured there was an abundance of any interesting puzzle to occupy his hectic mind with. He sat up and lugged his thin frame to the window and stared out at the fields. There was nothing.

There was not a single footprint in the russet coloured mud that was not caused by a member of his family. He had nothing to deduce from his surroundings, so he returned to his bed and burrowed his shivering body in the sheets.

_Boredom._

He was cold, bored and did not want to disturb his parents, who were happily spending time together. Perhaps, he could read a book? He wondered. So, Sherlock looked out of the corner of his eye at the D.I.Y bookshelf and skimmed it from top to bottom, he'd read them all.

The once blue sky had lost all light more than six hours ago, and the time was getting closer and closer to midnight. Sherlock had never slept well, he did not need it. His body could function suitably in any situation with little sleep and no food. He was fine, that's what he insisted.

He wanted something. He wanted anything. He needed it. The boredom was overwhelmingly tedious to the adolescent. He has such a brilliant brain but nothing to use it on, wasting it on sleep seemed utterly pointless.

So, he searched the stiff draws under his bedside table for something to do. He expected to find a crossword puzzle or a tacky, completed Rubik's Cube but instead he found a pencil-case. He had no paper though, so drawing or writing wasn't an option. Consequently, he started fiddling with the pencil sharpener, tossing it in the air and twiddling it around his fingers until his thumb got caught in the gap between the blade and the icy metal.

It was incredibly sharp.

"Ouch," He cursed under his breath.

The abrupt thrill that rushed through him when he sliced his pale skin on the blade was sort of satisfying. He put the tip of his thumb to his tongue and slipped it amid his lips to clear the iron-tasting blood away with his saliva.

He didn't like the pain, but the feeling was so intense and fulfilling that he decided to grab a small screwdriver from his father's room.

He crept silently through the small house because the floorboards were creaky and he did not want his father to find him stealing, he did not want his caring father to be disappointed with him. Besides, he was not really stealing; he preferred to think of it as borrowing. His father kept the tools under the double bed. So he rummaged through the box until he found one that would easily remove the screw from the pencil sharpener. He inserted it into the diminutive metal screw, twisted it carefully a few times until the screw was loose enough to detach from the small contraption, he put the tool back into his father's red tool box, positioned it correctly and then tiptoed back to his tiny room while dodging all the old, squealing floorboards.

He cocooned himself back into the warmth of his duvet and the contrasting chill of the blade was so tempting and inviting. It was like it was asking Sherlock to drag it across his own skin.

And so he did. He pressed the frosty blade lightly on the skin beneath his shirt. He dug it in slowly into his abdomen until the sharp tip seemed to disappear in layers of his skin. It stung. He retreated the blade and realised that there was no blood. Well, there was a pool forming, but it hardly classified as a drip. Despite the pain of the bitter blade he placed it back on his skin and this time he pressed harder. _Much harder._ He wanted to feel pain, he'd never even _felt_ before. There was more blood this time. It welled as a small puddle and then the liquid appeared to expand over his fair skin. He sat there for a moment in awe of what he had done. He was bewildered that he had actually just sliced such a sharp object over his skin and he stayed there, subdued for a moment. Then his brain felt better. It was not solving a complicated puzzle, but it was focusing on the pain. This strong, strong feeling that Sherlock was unfamiliar with suddenly extend from physical pain to mental concentration on this pain. His beautiful and rare mind was finally doing something.

It was the start of a very bad road.

It was a lingering problem for fifteen years until anyone found out. Most people who engaged in the act of self harm, as Sherlock had discovered through intensive psychological research, could barely keep it a secret for a couple of years. However, Sherlock was clever and devious. He would go to great lengths to keep something a secret if he wanted to.

His methods had grown from just simply cutting. He soon found himself whacking his body with small, dense objects until a purple bruise began to form, he used a gas lighter to hover below his skin to cause minor burns. However, he used the methods a lot less in his early adult years. People would call this behavior unhealthy, he knew they would, so he didn't let anyone in because humans just didn't understand.

He had resorted to using illegal drugs recreationally to occupy his mind. He could speed up his thought process, slow it down and do anything with the use of substances. He didn't label himself and a substance abuser or a drug addict, but it didn't go down too well with the police.

He was dragged off the grungy concrete underneath a bridge one night when he was 29 and sleeping rough. His body had been found convulsing and unconscious. The sturdy hands of someone grabbed him firmly by his shoulders and placed him in the back of a police car. They placed a warm blanket around his palpitating body as they waited for an ambulance to arrive. He was checked out and deemed fit enough to not be taken to a hospital, so he was unwillingly taken to the station.

After a sleepless night on a rigid bed in a cold grey room a police officer came to interview him.

"_Those things will kill you._" He informed Sherlock, and this left a lasting impression on him. The man pulled out a chair aggressively and offered Sherlock a seat with a small gesture," Right, now I need you to tell me what went on last night. You were high. I need to know what charges to press and, believe you me, it makes my job easier if you tell me what happened," The officer had a raspy, London accent and spoke very affirmatively.

Sherlock sat there and didn't reply for a moment. He slouched his back and tilted his head until he was relying on the table to hold his upper-body weight. His fiddled continuously and vibrated his fingers uncontrollably.

"Sherlock!" The middle-aged officer bellowed.

"What?" Sherlock asked malevolently.

"I need you to say."

"I don't have the time for this," Sherlock stared quickly at the officer. He had short hair and was going grey but there were traces of dark brown hair dye around his hair-line, his face was squared but he had and sharp chin and he stood firmly but his posture was poor and he had a badge with his name after a 'DS' title. "You're a Sergeant, look at me and tell me what happened."

Sherlock tilted one side of his mouth in contempt as he glared at the Sergeant who looked stumped. Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly and the Sergeant smiled weakly and shook his head.

"Okay, then, my turn. You are a sergeant, clearly from the badge. Your hair was of a normal colour a year ago, evidently by the poor attempt you have made to apply hair dye unprofessionally you have gone grey rapidly. Possibly, you are having issues with you wife that caused you stress. You're not wearing your ring. Tut, tut. You tanned on the holiday you gave yourself to try to forget about your marital issues but there is an obvious tan line because you were still wearing a cheap gold ring during that holiday. When you walked me in here I caught you glaring enviously at the Detective Inspector who ordered you to do so. You wanted that title, 'Detective Inspector…" I can help you out and get you a promotion to help you become DI," Sherlock glimpsed quickly at the name badge, "G. Lestrade.'"

"How?" Lestrade asked, bewildered.

"I can solve a basic crime and become an expert on someone in three minutes. I'm intellectual and have supreme talents when it comes to deduction. I can help you on a breakthrough case if you don't sentence me. Charge me, by all means; I have no issues with paying a substantial amount."

"That's a bribe! You're bribing me."

"So what if I am?"

"Listen, can I just... I'm not here to arrest you – sure that is something I'm supposed to do, but I wanted to help you out."

Sherlock scoffed and turned away from the detective. The change of clothes that he had been given were far too small so when he turned to face the other way with his scrawny arms crossed his grey top climbed up to show his hip.

"Oh… God…" Lestrade choked as he stare at the wounds on Sherlock's thin body, "Are those… are those self-inflicted?"

Sherlock tossed his head to the side away from Lestrade and grimaced in annoyance.

"Clearly," He muttered, "You didn't need to ask."

"Right. Hm. You're a troubled child, aren't you?"

"I'm not a child."

"You behave like one! Listen, this is really dangerous and you are destroying your sodding clever mind on these drugs and this sadness-"

"I'm. Not. Sad. I am Sherlock Holmes, I feel nothing. I'm a _high functioning sociopath_."

Lestrade simply rolled his eyes. He then proceeded to tentatively walk over to the young man.

"Look, you're clever, kid," Sherlock turned his nose up at the older mans choice of words, "Sherlock," He corrected himself, "I don't want to see someone waste that talent so… If you want me to help you, give you something to solve. A puzzle or a crime... It's confidential information but I'm pretty sure I can make an exception if it is for the greater good. Listen, these are our cases but I can let you in. You don't need to do anything to help in return, I just don't want to see someone so great deteriorate and hurt themselves with all these drugs…"

"So, you would consider consulting with me? And let me on to crime scenes"

"If, in return, you promise to stop with the drugs and the… harming yourself? I'm unsure if you'll be allowed on crime scenes, though."

"I'll make no promises to stop," Sherlock declared, "But... I will try."

"Okay, well do you have a home to go to? I have some files on a shooting in Whitechapel that I can let you in on?"

"It's good to know that you've already made the deal to let me in on these case. I must admit it was a pompous idea of yours, but thank you for going along with it," The man muttered coldly without making eye contact with Sergeant Lestrade.

Lestrade smiled in disbelief. He liked the troubled man. He knew that he should be doing more, trying to get him into a rehabilitation centre or something, but the man was too clever that it seemed cruel to trap a great man. He thought to himself and smiled at the man, pulling him into a firm hug, but Sherlock simply froze and sat there awkwardly as Lestrade crouched there hugging him. He let go from the awkward position when it was clear that Sherlock was just going to sit there absent-mindedly. Lestrade wondered to himself why he had decided to hug the man anyway, he had done it nevertheless.

"So, you have a place to go back to?" Lestrade asked.

"Nope. No where local."

"What?! Well, my wife's away-"

"I already told you what happened with your wife earlier, marital issues, remember? No need to lie."

"Right. Okay… You can come and stay with me for a while, just when you are trying to find a permanent place. I have a large flat. When my shift is over, I mean… You can..."

Sherlock did nothing but looked away and it seemed to Lestrade like he was nodding. He would have to receive that as an agreement, it seemed like he wouldn't get much else out of the willowy, enigmatic man.

He stared at Sherlock, trying to make his own deduction. He frowned in concern; he couldn't make one because he was too cryptic. He was a drug user or addict and self harmed, but said he wasn't sad. Lestrade took a deep breath and cocked his head to the side. He couldn't even make a vague analysis of the man.

Sherlock didn't attempt to wear a façade of happiness. He simply sat there and stared plainly, he had already told Sergeant Lestrade that he was not sad, that didn't make him happy; it just meant that he didn't feel the emotions that other pitiful humans felt.

Or at least that was what he told himself.

* * *

Sherlock jolted his eyes open wide as he slipped out of the memories in his mind palace and into the present reality. He stared at the ceiling and discovered himself lying rigidly on the sofa. He blinked a couple of times to make sure that what he was seeing around him really was the miserably boring reality that he remembered.

He couldn't remember the last time he had solved a case.

He inhaled loudly and choked on the clean air as it filled his lungs. He was craving anything to take the boredom away. It had crossed his mind that his skin was itching and he was craving… something. He did not want to dismiss his thoughts but he knew that he was craving the sharpness of a blade, the bluntness of an object impacting his skin, the blazing heat of a flame or at least the smoke of a cigarette to fill his lungs and not the distracting, bland oxygen that he had been supplied with. He groaned at the nagging temptation.

"Sherlock… you okay?" A voice cooed softly from a chair in the corner of the room. It was John.

"Obviously, John."

John raised his eyebrows and stifled a muffled chuckle. He looked over to Sherlock with that '_sorry I bothered_' look.

Sherlock had been witnessing flashbacks in his mind palace for the last hour; he'd tried desperately to cut some memories from those dark times that his boredom and lack of emotion had caused from his hard rive, but it was difficult to delete those memories when they were still affecting him on a regular basis even in his mid thirties, as much as he wished they weren't still relevant.

Lestrade, who was now a Detective Inspector, thanks to Sherlock consulting with him, had believed that he had given up the self destructive lifestyle. True, he had tried like he promised to. However, he still occasionally lapsed into drugs - and self harm was something he had learned to hide well. He still felt the pressure to not disappoint people. So, he would keep it a secret from Lestrade.

John, of course, never knew about any of this. He had sworn Lestrade to secrecy. In fact the only person who had known about the self harm was Lestrade, and even he only ever knew about the cutting from the few scars that he had caught a glimpse of. It was relatively common knowledge that Sherlock used drugs recreationally and abused substances, but that was a rarity. Sherlock peeped over at John who was sat in his armchair holding a large newspaper; he was so oblivious to Sherlock's vicious habit of harming himself.

'_No_,' he warned himself, '_No! No! No! Don't be stupid, Sherlock_.' He was considering it. What John didn't know couldn't hurt him… Not that Sherlock cared about hurting people; he continued to tell himself that.

"Date?" Sherlock questioned his blogger.

"Erm…" John flipped the newspaper to the cover, "23rd of Mar-"

"No, tonight. Date? Have you got a date?"

"Oh right," John said, "Yeah. I'm meeting with Mary later; we're going out for a meal. That's a couple of hours away though, I'll get ready later."

"Hm, don't make it too late."

"Sorry?"

"Mary is used to nice smells and relatively pricy perfumes, so you don't want to smell bad so I suggest using a less expensive aftershave because the more expensive ones which you own tend to be more pungent… You don't want to suffocate your girlfriend. Also, take a… long shower," Sherlock explained while flaring his nostrils and visibly cringing.

"Thanks. I feel all the better. You are a reassuring sod sometimes, you know, Sherlock."

Sherlock simply smirked.

John left Sherlock lying on the sofa for a little over an hour. He took a long shower and tried to make himself seem presentable, probably overdoing it, Sherlock assumed. Mary really wasn't interested in John being overly smart, but John tended to do too much of everything unimportant when he was attempting to impress someone who didn't need impressing.

John came back down to Sherlock, grabbed his coat, said farewell extremely swiftly before dashing out to make sure that he would be early.

When Sherlock was certain that John would not be returning he stood up hurriedly causing his vision to blur and flash. He stumbled over to the window to make sure that he was correct in his deduction about John. He was.

He leisurely strolled towards his room and pulled his sock drawer completely out of the cupboard that it rested inside. In the back of the drawer, hidden from an ordinary person's eyes, was a small compartment with a box inside, within the box was a white tissue and secreted in the tissue was a smooth razor blade. Sherlock decided that razor blades were commonly sharper than pencil sharpener blades because children were less unlikely to use a treacherous razor. So this made the affair easier, quicker and generally safer.

He grabbed the blades carefully and brought them with him into his private bathroom and locked the door behind them. Sherlock held his blades; '_Alone at las_t,' He thought to himself.


	2. Lapse

_I know I have another fic to update but I really wanted to get this one off to a nice start before updating my other one, I also have a couple of one-shots I wrote a while ago that I want to edit before I upload them, but they'll be up sooner of later._

_Anywaaaaay thank you for those reviews yesterday, they were very kind and made my day. This will be a shorter chapter, I think. Most because I am tired and I just got back from school so I will only spend like hour writing. I hope you enjoy it anyway._

_Another reminder if somehow you accidentally skipped a chapter all the trigger warnings still apply._

_Whoa! Disclaimer alert! I own none of this. Apart from the writing (Which, shocker, I have done myself) all the characters and original stories belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC Sherlock belongs to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat._

_P.S. My Sherlock and other fandom's Tumbler is also named consultingat221b and the one key is hardly working on my laptop so that was difficult to type!_

_P.P.S. Please leave a review, I am always trying to improve and I have only really been writing creatively for a month._

* * *

Sherlock reclined against the cold, soothing tiles of the bathroom wall and sighed in relief. He pushed the blade so it forced into his skin, letting the fine edge separate the pale flesh which supposedly should be flawless and connected.

He took another profound breath as the intense pain from the small slice rushed through his body. He did enjoy this. The ecstasy that the agonising gash caused, the excitement of the pain and most of all just feeling _anything_ was the best sense to destroy the numbness and boredom that had infuriated Sherlock all day. When John left Sherlock had been itching to hold the cold blade in his hand and drag it across his skin. He was desperate. And now there was an opportunity to do that he was not going to waste his time. So he sat there with the blade and continued to make small fine cuts, there was hardly any blood. He had made a couple of relatively deep cuts in this session, but he did not want to open any of the old, pallid, rough scars.

Over the many years that he had suffered from this addiction he had managed to confine his cuts to the area hidden beneath his tight shirts, but that area was now overcrowded and mutilated with scars and fresh cuts. So, Sherlock decided that it might be an initiative idea to move to another section of his body. '_Not the forearms,'_ He thought. They were too easily noticed and a stereotyped location for self harmers to cut. His habit would be noticed instantly if he moved to his arms. He considered his legs… '_Maybe, just maybe_,' He reflected on his ideas, '_Thighs… Ankle is too easily noticed by trousers flaring up… Who thinks to look at thighs?_'

As a result of his plan, he dropped the blade on the tiled floor and it fell speedily while making a high-pitched tingling sound. He then proceeded to grab a damp cloth and some antiseptic cream and he placed it near himself. He cleaned up the bloody area around his stomach and stuck a cheap, adhesive plaster over the slightly deeper wounds. He then undid his tight belt and lowered his trousers until it revealed the skin around his firm and muscular, but still dangerously thin, legs.

He looked carefully at his left thigh and analysed where the most painful pace to cut would be. He decided on an area that was on the flabbier part of his inner thigh. Without giving his decision a second thought he grabbed the blade off the floor and placed it against his skin. He found the angle strange and new, so he must have misjudged the pressure that he should apply and his hand slipped vaguely at the alien angle. He wasn't even looking. But, that was Sherlock, he was careless. When he did glimpse down at the fresh cut he felt shocked to see the puddle of scarlet blood that had quickly formed. The crimson colour was spreading over his skin and dripping on to the floor, completely transforming the colour of the tiles. It could have only taken 30 seconds.

He grabbed the cloth and started pressing it hard against the tender wound. The cut was not stinging like he remembered his wounds doing. _It was throbbing_. He lifted the cloth up cautiously and he noticed his blood was drenching the cloth as it exited the gash. _It wasn't stopping_.

He heaved his body up while still pressing the cloth to his thigh and twisted the tap on the bath, running moderately cold water.

Once the tub was halfway to overflowing Sherlock did not hesitate to immerse his body in the water. He did not remove the cloth even as it became soaked with H2O along the dark red liquid. Finally, he moved the cloth and placed it on the side of the bath, watching the cream coloured tub become stained with red. In fact, a lot of the room had become stained by Sherlock's blood.

He started to breathe more rapidly. The blood flow seemed to slow down but he couldn't understand why he had been so stupid. He had never lost control so easily before.

When the blood had lessened to a simple drip he pulled the plug out of the bath and watched as the water drained while he reclined in exhaustion.

At some point he must have drifted off.

* * *

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he hopped up the last step to 221B and slipped his key into the lock.

It was late in the morning after Sherlock's incident. John had stayed that night at Mary's after a nice meal and a fun evening, he returned late after having a lie in.

John walked into the flat expecting to see his friend in his traditional pose. Either sitting in his black, leather chair, or reclining on the sofa with his hands clenched in a praying gesture beneath his chin.

John walked over to his friend's bedroom tentatively. He did not want to wake him if he was finally getting a well-earned snooze. He slowly knocked on the door.

"Sherlock?" He asked gently in a singsong voice. There was no reply.

He then knocked harder.

"_Sherlock?_"

This startled the consulting detective blinked his eyes rapidly as he woke up. He looked around expecting to see the familiar wall of his bedroom but he became startled when he stared at the tiled wall of the bathroom. He felt… faint. He realised that he was wearing a tight shirt, so he undid a few of the damp buttons to allow him to breath and stop the confinement on his chest.

"John?" He groaned.

"Oh, sorry. What are you doing in the bath you never bathe this early in the morning?"

"I… Felt like a wash. It wouldn't be any trouble for you if you did not linger by that door because it is rather distracting."

"Right, well don't be too long. I fancy a bath; I didn't have one at Mary's."

"I thought you had a bath in your room" Sherlock raised his voice so John would hear it less muffled.

"No, I have a bathroom. For some reason it is a lot smaller than yours. I'll have a bath after you."

Then John walked away. Sherlock presumed that he had gone to the living room and would now be sat on his chair opening his computer.

Sherlock vaguely recalled what happened last night. He was on such a high, because of the rush from the injury, that he wasn't thinking properly. He rotated his head as he tried to get out of the bath and the state of the room shocked him. There was blood. He saw the crimson horror splattered on the floor and it tarnished the surface of the bath. Sherlock jumped up quickly because he knew that he must attempt to make the room spotless before John came in for his bath.

He stood up so abruptly that blood rushed to his head causing him to stagger from the dizziness as he climbed out of the bath. He grabbed a sponge and some detergent that he found in the cupboard and got to work.

He scrubbed and scrubbed until he only hoped that John wouldn't notice. He knew that _he_ would pick up on the vague brown stains right away, but John was ordinary. The balance of probability was that he would not notice.

Sherlock removed his blood-spattered, damp clothes and wrapped a clean towel around his body. He disguised the cloth between the piles of messy clothes he carried as he exited the bathroom.

He opened the door and stumbled out of the bathroom.

John tossed his head and looked at his friend. Sherlock could sense the concerned expression on his face; it repulsed him why John would even worry.

"You look drunk! _Are you okay?_ You're stumbling," He looked over at his friend, "Come and sit down."

Sherlock merely twisted his scrawny body towards his bed room and just before he got a chance to enter he felt John's hand on his shoulder. The firm grip was reassuring, but Sherlock did not need a doctor to look after him now. He tried desperately hard to walk away but he kept staggering and was nowhere near as strong as John Hamish Watson.

"I mean it Sherlock, no excuses, even if you are... Only wearing a towel. Come and sit down while I get you some water."

"John, I'm fine."

"Oh, _really?"_

"I'm a little disoriented but that is the only _unimportant_ issue. I just stood up too quickly. Now let go of me."

"I said you are sitting down. I don't know when you last had a drink of water, but you are having one now. Doctor's orders."

"Can I not lie down in the presence of my bed and have some water? I do not see why there is any pathetic need to sit in a chair."

"If you insist to do that... Then fine."

Sherlock turned away from John and walked into his bedroom.

He panicked at the sight; his sock draw was still left on the floor. So, Sherlock hastily dumped the clothes on the double bed and rushed over to the cupboard. He had to pull his towel up because it started to slip down his body as he hurried to hide the evidence of what he had done last night.

He managed to heave the weighty draw back into its place and he secreted the pile of moist clothes and the bloody cloths under his bed. Sherlock winced as he pulled a silky pair of pyjama bottoms up his sore leg. He then clambered in his bed and pulled his duvet over himself until it met his chin.

John opened his bedroom door and entered the room without knocking a single time. He was carrying a tray with a mug, a jar of ice-cold water and a plate with some buttered toast. Sherlock grimaced when he saw this and raised his eyebrow s like he had seen a disgusting dead body. '_Then again, Sherlock would probably smile if he saw a dead body_,' John thought to himself. And he chuckled at his idea.

"No need to look so disgusted about it," John remarked.

"I do not _need_ food, John."

"Just eat up, drink up and shut up."

John stepped closer to the bed at that moment to place the tray on Sherlock's lap. When he placed his bare foot closer to his friend's bed he felt something damp and when Sherlock took hold of the tray he took a step back and crouched down to take a look.

"John, no… _Don't!_ I'm telling you to go."

"Sherlock, what? I'm just… There's something under your bed…"


	3. Show Me

_I should be revising…. Oh well I enjoy writing and I think there are a few people interested in this story and I am trying to keep writing well, but I am finding this one quite difficult to write so I can only hope you enjoy this chapter and the story in general. I will say that it is a LOT shorter than the other ones I have written, I just didn't have the time and I am finding this tough to write – but that definitely does not mean I will stop!_

_TRIGGER WARNINGS for self harm and drugs. _

_As always, I don't own Sherlock - even though I wish I did!_

_So long, soldiers._

* * *

_"There's something under your bed…"_

"Honestly, John, it's not of any importance. So, stop bothering me and leave," Sherlock instructed his shorter friend.

It was too late.

John lifted the soggy pile off of the ground and stared at it like he had just picked up a heap of grubby, slimy mud. He frowned at it but didn't say anything to Sherlock. Sherlock's extreme lack of care for anything in the flat was something John was used to, but it had not crossed his mind how utterly careless Sherlock could be. John knew that the floor would be damp and since it was wooden this could cause decay and it would go bad. He cringed as a humid drip of water came from the mountain of clothes and plummeted on to his naked foot. '_Why were Sherlock's clothes so wet?_' He wondered.

"Do you take a bath in your clothes? I don't have a clue how you managed to soak these, you're a right idiot," He said light-heartedly, he then proceeded to walk away, clutching Sherlock's squelching fabrics.

Sherlock deduced that he was going to throw them in a basket that was overflowing with things for Mrs Hudson to wash. So, when John turned the handle on the door to Sherlock's room, his taller friend tossed his duvet away from his body and efficiently hopped out of his bed before lunging at John.

"Sherlo- What the fuck are you doing?" He shouted quickly. When the Consulting Detective jolted towards him John felt shocked, so instinctively he stumbled and lost grip of the clothes while he threw his hands in front of him to break his startling fall.

Sherlock paused.

John pushed himself up, sturdily and abruptly. He brushed off his clothes. That's when he saw it. The mount of clothes had fallen on the floor and something had slithered out-of-place. A cloth. It was visibly white in areas, but there was a large portion of the cloth that was stained in an excess of crimson.

"Sherlock?" John steadily questioned his friend while staring at the sight.

Sherlock pretended to be oblivious to John's concern, "What?" He asked.

John's mouth dropped open sluggishly. He stared at Sherlock, said nothing and suspiciously raised the corner his mouth. He was speechless.

"I think you know what… How did you… Is that _your_ blood?" John looked worriedly at the curly, brunette-haired man. Sherlock was nodding, "What happened?"

In a rush of panic and frustration Sherlock muttered something about cutting himself shaving.

John spat in disbelief. He recognised the desperacy and panic in Sherlock's eyes from patients he had consulted with previously. He knew what had happened, although it was the last thing he wanted to believe.

"Can I see? Because, Sherlock, right now it doesn't look like there are any, apparently deep, cuts on your face. And I honestly doubt that a grown man like you shave their legs or arm hair…"

Sherlock sucked at his lips, causing them to become thin. The little life that was visible in his chestnut eyes became even less clear. He then turned and hesitated for a moment before staggering back towards his bed.

John stood still for a moment to collect his thoughts. Sherlock had done this to himself. He stared at the gory, blood-stained tissues. John knew it was a common problem among young people, but it was less heard about in adults, and that self harm was increasing rapidly in society. That didn't mean he could be naïve to what he had unbelievably just seen. William Sherlock Scott Holmes: a self harmer. John couldn't simply ignore that.

He composed himself, took a few unfathomably deep breaths, wavered for a moment and then moved the door forwards. He peeped uncertainly into Sherlock's room. He wasn't visible. All it took was a minor movement from under the covers for John to realise that his friend had literally buried himself out of fear, confusion, embarrassment or whatever it was that unthinkably went on in Sherlock's mind.

"Listen, Sherlock…" John started, but he heard no response, "Sherlock! Just get your head out of those covers immediately. _And listen to me._"

"John, you should know when you're unwanted."

"I can see I'm not wanted currently, but that's not going to shift me."

A short gasp came from under the covers. Sherlock didn't have much air under there and his warm breaths would be resonating and making him extremely uncomfortable and sweaty. John figured that the lanky detective would have to come out sooner or later.

The duvet budged vaguely and before long Sherlock's coiled hair was visible, then his whole head popped up. John furrowed his eyebrows. Sherlock's skin looked abnormally pale and on his sheet-white face were his cobalt eyes, they looked bloodshot and glazed. Had he been crying?

"Have you been _self harming?_"

"Yes, I have," The detective answered bluntly.

John set his jaw and firmly nodded. He prompted his body near to Sherlock and uncomfortably sat on the mattress. John looked directly in his eyes. A lonely, varnished tear slipped down his cheek. John instinctively raised his medium-sized hand to Sherlock's cheek and cautiously wiped the tear away. Sherlock merely widened his eyes and immediately furrowed his brows in confusion. Sherlock could not comprehend why anyone would be so caring towards him.

"_Why?_"

"Bored," Sherlock said. After not telling John the whole truth he attempted to laugh off the situation.

"Shut up, Sherlock. Please. Why are you doing this? I want you to tell me honestly. Don't even pretend to laugh. This is not a joke, not this time. You know you can talk to me," John swallowed. He was trying to speak in an affirming manner and treat Sherlock like a patient, but it was increasingly difficult because the detective was not going to coöperate, "You could have come to me. I'm a bloody doctor, for Christ's sake! I have dealt with this before."

Sherlock broke eye contact, "Don't make assumptions, John. I am not clinically depressed, or anything ridiculous like that. I might be crying but that does not make me sad. I am a high-functioning sociopath."

"_Sure you are_," John muttered under his breath. He found this difficult, but he knew that it was vital to help, "Why did you do it?"

Sherlock only shrugged his skeletal shoulders and looked in the opposite direction. He realised that John though he had only hurt himself once. '_How quaint_.' Sherlock thought.

John breathed in deeply. He was saddened, confused, worried and extremely angered by the revelation. Sherlock wouldn't comply. He would not lose hope, though. This was his best friend. And his best friend was reclining on this bed after cutting himself, staring back at his _only_ friend.

"Show me?" John asked affectionately.


	4. An Experiment?

_I have so much writer's block! I know where I am going I just find it very hard to write in an interesting way. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy. My laptop has been so slow so when i write a sentence it takes like 10 seconds before it appears on the screen, and I can't use word so I am very sorry if there are a few errors, because I'm a bad proofreader when it involves my brain! I also have another story (Don't Tell John) which I have a couple of updates for and will upload them asap._

_Trigger Warnings for self harm and drug use references and descriptions._

_Stay safe and wonderful, my lovelies._

_I don't own Sherlock (But I do own the box set, original books and a Tumblr dedicated to it so all is good!)_

* * *

Sherlock huffed noisily, "There is _nothing_ to show."

John folded his arms slowly and glared at Sherlock like an eagle would stare at its prey. He refused to break eye contact with Sherlock, who had instantly jolted his head so that his cobalt eyes were not gazing into John's. John then continued to raise his bushy eyebrows questioningly.

There was a lengthy silence.

"_Arms_, Sherlock," John demanded.

Sherlock complacently raised his arm and unbuttoned the creased shirt he had thrown on speedily earlier to reveal his smooth, unharmed skin.

"I told you, there is _nothing_ to show."

His shorter friend instantly grimaced and glanced at the wall subconsciously. The wallpaper John stared at was flat and a colour that John could hardly distinguish whether it was a dark blue or an almost green. Anyway, what did the wallpaper matter? He had entered Sherlock's large-but-uncomfortably-scientific room to get answers and help him, and not to stare at a plain wall with a few frames and a periodic table placed proudly on it.

"Take off your shirt."

"What? John, it was not my intention to imply anything by allowing you to sit on my bed."

"Sherlock…"

"I'm not removing this shirt from my body."

"Fine then. Don't. Just tell me where you cut yourself and let me see if it needs any medical attention because that was your blood soaking that cloth. God knows why you did it. Honestly, if this is one of your ridiculous experiments I am going to… I'm going to…"

"It was not simply an experiment."

"Then what the fuck was it?" he asked croakily.

Sherlock's face was vacant; he just sat there, unblinking. Many thoughts were running through his head. Should he tell John? He shouldn't. Should he show John? He wouldn't. Should he let John inside his head? He couldn't.

However, he wanted to.

"If I tell you would you hate me?"

"What?" John breathed. He felt like laughing but he couldn't.

"If I tell you would you hate me?"

"Sherlock, you're a pain in the arse and generally a cock. It's hard to imagine that I don't hate you but I don't and I _never_ could. No matter what stupid things you do."

"I wouldn't care if you were repulsed and infuriated by me. I never even expected you to minimally put up with my ridiculous behaviour after the first crime we solved together, A Study in Peach, or whatever stupid label you titled it with on your blog."

"Alright, that is true - very true. Actually, it was _A Study in Pink_. But I don't and I can't ever hate you. That's all that matters. Now, please say want you want to say."

Sherlock nodded, accepting what his friend said. Actually, it was hard to take in. The Consulting Detective had always been used to ordinary people being so completely off turned by him that the few exceptions, including, John, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson and John's new girlfriend Mary, left him startled by their uncalled for appreciation and _care_, even if he did annoy them to the world's end

"Take your time," John said tonelessly but he sounded kind at the same time.

Sherlock crinkled his nose and monotonously exhaled.

"I don't quite know what to say, I certainly never speak about it."

"Just tell me what '_it_' is, we can work from there." He told him supportively.

Sherlock closed his blue eyes to reveal two shining eyelids, he had cried a lot. John furrowed his eyebrows and felt his heart plummet. No one ever saw Sherlock Holmes sob. _No one_ and _ever_ were two vital words in that sentence. John tried to recall another dark time when he had witnessed Sherlock cry, and he couldn't. Before now, had never been a bystander that directly watched the detective weep. John had never literally seen salty tears cascade from his wet eyes. He was not sure any normal person had. He wondered if the only other person who had seen Sherlock unwillingly tear up was the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath staring back at him in the reflective mirror.

Until now.

"I still don't know how to begin to describe what happened."

"Show me. It makes it easier, you don't have to say anything, just show me the damage you have done and I can ask what I need to know and help medically with whatever happened today. How does that sound?"

Sherlock reluctantly said, "Okay, fine, John. I will try it your way," and then being Sherlock Holmes he had to add, "Although your way is normally outrageously unreasonable."

John giggled, "That's what I like to hear."

He stopped speaking when he noticed Sherlock was trying to scramble out of his unyielding, tight shirt. John didn't question him.

Before Sherlock had taken his shirt off he muttered, "It wasn't just the one time. As I deduced you had assumed. It wasn't just today."

Then there was an undetectable thump as he lobbed the shirt to the side. John instinctively turned to watch it land slowly on the floor; it behaved like a mini parachute that wasn't carrying a person. The echoes of what Sherlock had just said were till resonating in his mind. When John turned back around to look at Sherlock and his shirtless body his taller friend had tugged his duvet down to reveal his undernourished abdomen.

And scars.

Lots of scars, bruises and even what _seemed_ like burns.

Mutilation and destruction, some old, some new, others were faded and some still remained. Sherlock's stomach looked like a battle had occurred. Of course, _it had_, it must have been a grisly war with his self.

John edged closer to Sherlock. Sherlock abruptly slammed his eyes shut like a door, expecting John to shout or leave him. He inhaled quickly, expecting the worst and looking so uncharacteristically frightened. Then a soft had touched his war wounds and affectionately caressed them.

He was so shocked by this unexpected contact and retreated until his neck bashed the headboard of the double bed. John removed his hand.

"There's no fresh, deep… cuts. So where's the culprit of all that blood?" asked John, cautiously, trying to avoid mentioning all the marks too suddenly.

"Leg."

"At least you don't have a psychosomatic limp because of it."

Sherlock smiled half-heartedly.

"Where about on your leg?" asked John.

Sherlock murmured under his heavy breath, "Thigh."

John threw both of his hefty hands to his forehead and began to massage his temples, while closing his eyes. He exhaled so loudly, strongly and profoundly that he forced his defined lips apart, it was almost like he was blowing the air muscularly out of his healthy lungs.

"Christ, Sherlock. That's so, so dangerous."

"Do you honestly think I am not aware of that?" the taller man raised an eyebrow while asking John.

John closed his eyes and he could not get rid of the horrifying image of Sherlock's lifeless remains lying on the cold floor, surrounded by a gruesome outpour of blood and looking worse than any body they had witnessed on a crime scene. He'd run to the corpse and ask if he could hear him, expecting a soft moan or for him to say, "John, I'm okay." However, he wouldn't. Not this time. He'd lie on the frosty, tiled floor in a congealed puddle of scarlet. He'd be wearing his best suit and shirt combinations, most likely one that Mycroft had bought him for a particular event. He wouldn't like it because it was a gift but he'd want to look impeccable, even in death. There would be a small funeral and then he'd be gone; dead and buried. Properly gone, forever and he would not come back.

"For God's sake John, stop picturing my dead body. It wasn't that deep."

"How did y- Never mind… Why do you do it, Sherlock?"

"I don't know," he lied.

"Of course you do."

"Yes. I do."

"Tell me," he demanded but spoke softly and carefully to the man who seemed to currently be in a vulnerable state.

Sherlock merely shook his head. His flops of curls fell loosely over his defined face and his distinct lips almost pouted. The blood-shot traces of tears in his eyes had disappeared because now there were simply tears rolling ungracefully down his contoured cheekbones.

"You know," his undersized friend started, "I never thought I'd see you cry."

"I can't control it. Believe me, if I could I would."

John nodded once, to make it obvious that he understood Sherlock. He stared at the glazed drip of water as they oddly made their way out of the once stern, unemotional eyes. This was extremely atypical for Sherlock. No matter what he said, it wouldn't change how weird it was for John to watch these dejected droplets drain from the usually focussed eyes.

"Do you know how serious self injury is, Sherlock?"

"It is not that big of a deal. Loads of people take part in the activity of harming one's self."

"No, it is. Shut up! It is," John snapped, uncontrollably, "It's a massive deal and I have dealt with it before. Just because it isn't rare doesn't mean it isn't terrible."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Christ, Sherlock… Who else knows? Have you received any therapy? When did you start? Some of those scars look very old."

"Questions. Questions. _Questions_."

"Sherlock… I'm being serious."

"So am I. You know, I was merely stating that you were asking an awful lot of questions. Here are the answers. Lestrade but no one else – oh, and you obviously. Me? Therapy," Sherlock scoffed, "God, no. And I was fourteen. Yes, I definitely started when I was fourteen."

John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Sherlock, answer me honestly. How bad was the last... cut?"

"Worse than usual. Definitely not in need of any further care, I checked it out. My hand slipped and it went deeper than I meant to in an area with… Well, I'm sure you know about all that medical jargon I was about to go into. You're a doctor."

"Take your trousers off," John said, trying to sound as professional as possible, "I need to check it out for myself, Sherlock."

Sherlock wasn't being difficult for John anymore. He simply undid his belt, pulled his trousers down uncomfortably so that his left thigh was only just visible; John observed it gently and decided that he would helpfully clean it up. So he grabbed something from his medical kit, cleaned up the wound and redid the dressing safely.

"I know that I can't just take all the dangerous objects from this house."

"You could _easily_ do that," Sherlock stated.

"Okay… I could. I won't though. I know it isn't something you can just stop and be done with forever. Believe me when I say I have dealt, or tried to deal, with it before."

"You can just say self harm. '_It_' is becoming an unnecessary substitute, don't you think?"

"Fine. I have seen patients before who self harm. It is not uncommon. I know that you can't just stop someone from a dangerous coping mechanism."

"It is not a coping mechanism," Sherlock dishonestly said.

"Well, what is it then?" John asked loudly, before deciding to tone his unnecessarily loud voice down. "Look. I want to help you, but you need to let me in. I know that is hard for you because it is difficult for me to, I find that sort of stuff _really_ hard. I just need to help you Sherlock. You're my best friend. That comes with a deal. You have to let me in. I'm giving you doctor's orders now, you have no other choice. I want you to write me an essay on when you started and you're history with… self harm."

"An essay? I knew your ideas were _all_ ridiculous."

"Maybe they are, but I still need you to write for me since you refuse to speak directly. Which, I understand."

"Could you leave me alone now, John?"

John sighed,"Of course I can. Please, do this for me."

Then he unenthusiastically trudged out the confining room.

John walked to the living room and grabbed his phone off the table he accidentally left it on, walked to the door of 221B, grabbed his large, thermal coat and then walked down the staircase. He knew that Sherlock might despise him for what he was about to do but John knew, deep down, that however less trustworthy he became to Sherlock that this was the right choice. The best decision he could make to help his friend.

So, when he was far enough away from the Baker Street flat to not be followed by his enigmatic friend he unlocked the LCD screen on his phone, flickered through the various widgets until he found the contacts button. Then he scrolled down to H and found the two Holmes' he had in his contact list.

He clicked nervously on the button: _Mycroft Holmes_.


	5. Rash Decisions Come With Consequences

Oooh, so I just found out that I a possible candidate for a role in a play that we will perform in Edinburgh Fringe next year, and they are suffering with self harm and I know that doesn't really relate to how I am writing this but I thought it was ironic, so I just had to let you know. Wow, it would be an absolute honour to lay that role. It would make my life; still, I am happy with any role!

This is another short one. I meant to show how rash some decisions were by the way I structured but that resulted in a short chapter. Sorry.

Can I also just say that Mycroft is an incredibly difficult character to write... That is all.

Disclaimer: I, sadly, don't own anything. Go and give Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss a hug to thank them for owning this.

* * *

The nippy air was biting the bare areas of John's skin as he nervously waited for the eloquent man to answer his phone. Mycroft never intended to come across as an intimidating person but John could not defeat the overwhelming feeling that Mycroft was watching him as he waited anxiously for him to pick up his phone. The thing was with Mycroft, he had England under his finger and it was impossible to shake the fear that his presence caused. Despite Mycroft generally being a good man, he did seem like a serial killer.

John crept back into the shadows of the Marylebone station. John had ensured he was a relatively good distance away from their flat in Baker Street until he phoned Mycroft so that Sherlock would not find out. Still, he had called about ten seconds ago and the Government Official had still not picked up. Fast seconds felt like dragging hours when he cautiously waited for someone to answer the damn phone.

There was a constant, irritating beeping delivered into John's ear. When he glimpsed at the bright screen he squinted and read the small writing which said it was _connecting_.

Suddenly the line went silent.

There was a soft rummaging until John finally heard a voice. It was a high-pitched, well-spoken female. John recognised the familiar voice. He knew this articulate woman as the unsociable person he had met during his first case with Sherlock. 'Anthea' was what John knew her as.

"Mycroft Holmes is currently unavailable. Can I please take a message?" she asked politely and professionally.

"I need to speak to him," John said swiftly as a shiver travelled down his spine when he thought of Sherlock all alone in the flat. He opened his mouth and gasped slightly when he remembered that he had not warned him to be careful, for all John knew the lanky detective could be laying on his bed in a growing pool of blood. He shook his head as he remembered Sherlock warning him to not think about him dying, "Now."

"My apologies, sir. He is unavailable."

"It is about his brother. Sherlock Holmes?"

There was a dead silence in his ear. He resorted to listening in to fractions of conversations from the local commuters as he listened to the quiet phone.

Anthea was not saying a single word.

John sighed, "It's important and about Sherlock?"

"Doctor Watson."

A new voice spoke back. Again, it was extremely familiar.

"Er… Mycroft?" John asked curiously.

"Yes. Now, delight me with some news about my younger brother."

"Hang on, she said you were busy."

"I was. However, one learns to drop vital business when Sherlock is a concern, it is most likely paramount. Even if it does put our control over Russia in unfathomable peril… let's not go into details..."

John furrowed his eyebrows. He was confused but knew that questioning Mycroft was never a good idea.

"I think it would be better if I spoke to you in person, I don't quite feel alright chatting over the phone. This is sort of… a serious matter."

Mycroft sighed impatiently, "Look to your left, there is a black car ready for you. Take a seat and join me when you arrive at The Diogenes Club."

John didn't see any point in questioning the absurdity of the situation because to him this was normal. Anything out of the norm became common when he met the enigmatic Holmes brothers. The brother's were so frighteningly odd in their behaviours that whenever a genuine smile of humanity appeared on their face John would find he did a double take.

He walked cautiously over to the vehicle and hopped into the seat that he was gestured towards by a suited man. Then, the expensive car filled with a leathery smell made its way through the busy London streets.

* * *

John was always wary of The Diogenes Club. It was an unconventionally professional place with weird traditions.

He made his way into Mycroft's office and the strangely slim and slick and superficial man gestured him to a seat in a sly manner.

"Sherlock? You remarked in the phone call that this was something of a _serious matter._" Mycroft questioned John with a clear sense of distaste in his voice.

"Yeah, it is."

"Go on then… I am living an eventful life, Doctor Watson. I do not have all day to waste on _chitchat_. I have no time to waste on chitchat, to be bluntly honest."

"Yes, well. I'm worried about him."

"As-per-usual, Doctor Watson."

John frowned. Even though his relationship with Mycroft had always been far from friendly; he disliked being referred to as 'Doctor Watson.'

Maybe, telling Mycroft was not the best of ideas.

"I'm worried about him."

"You have stated that already."

John exhaled and pinched the bridge of his wide nose, "No, Mycroft. This is more than simple _worrying_. I just wanted to check if you knew if… maybe… if your parents ever had him checked by a… psychiatrist?"

Mycroft scoffed noisily,"What? A psychiatrist? Oh, Doctor Watson, or if you prefer I could call you John since you were obviously thinking about how you preferred it," John opened his mouth to say something, then Mycroft hushed him and interrupted, "Why on _earth_ would they have had him examined by a psychiatrist? We were both as unusual as each other."

"He's hurting himself, Mycroft. Cuts, burns and bruises, you name it. Not on his arms, not in sight. His stomach and legs. It's well hidden. I've dealt with this before and there is almost always an underlining issue. I don't know what to do. I though you would know something, being in so much power and all. I can't shake the thought that he will end up… _killing himself_. Even if it was an accident, I still... I just..."

"John, slow down, slow down.. Sherlock is _harming_ his own body?"

John's mouth had unbolted. He realised he had spoken thoughtlessly.

_It was, quite possibly, a colossal mistake._


	6. How To Help A Self Harmer

_Apologies, apologies, apologies. Laptop completely died and thankfully I now have a much more fast and efficient machine (Yeah... It's a typewrite from the early 18th century...) to write this on so you should definitely expect more speedy updates for all of my stories and I am sorry that I was not able to write for over a week. Anyway... The game is on!_

* * *

_Disclaimer: I still own nothing. What a terrible thought. I will just pretend that I do. Plus, I think has updated something and it was really complicated to upload this and that has nothing to do with this disclaimer... waht.?  
_

* * *

"Oh, God. Yes. He is... self harming. I don't know why I told you, I just though it was appropriate seeing as you're family."

"I believed it was not your intention to spy on him," said Mycroft tauntingly.

"It wasn't. God, no. You are his brother... I thought you should, you know, _know_..."

Mycroft questioningly lifted his eyes to stare at John, who was now standing awkwardly in front of him.

"I understand that I should," Mycroft responded.

John swiftly nodded once and paused in a militaristic style.

They both paused. John felt regret wriving through his body as if his organs were convulsing. He wondered what Mycroft would do and how Sherlock would take to the fact that he had stupidly told his older brother about the issues John knew the slightest amount about. He didn't want Mycroft to take over. '_Christ_,' John thought, '_Why did I tell him?_'

"What should I do?" asked Mycroft.

John stifled a sort of laugh muffled by a snort, he never expected_ The British Government_ to ask him a question that sounded like it came from a child, "Huh?"

"Well, I know little about why people engage in these _acts_, but... from what I have heard it is a serious issue."

"Yeah, it is."

"Do I get him admitted?"

John grimaced at the very idea. The thought of such an active man confined in a 'safe place' with white rooms and constantly being observed as he dozes from the excess of medication that would numb the detective disgusted him. It would drain Sherlock. That wasn't living.

"That's exactly what I do not want happening."

Mycroft dismissed John's comment because his mind was deeply engraved in a tough stone of thought that he could not escape. John presumed he had concerned profusely about his younger brother in the past because Sherlock participates in dangerous acts every day, but he had never really had something so worrying behaviour-wise to care about.

"Did you honestly not know? Did his parents ever find out about... _it_?"

"How could I? I have my ways, Doctor," he coughed slightly to correct himself, "John. However, installing cameras in his own bathroom does not seem an overly _brotherly_ thing to do."

John sniggered, "Yeah. You have always been _so_ brotherly," the sarcasm in his voice was exceedingly apparent.

"I am many things, John, I am not a spy though. I have easy acces to spies... of course."

"Did you never search his room when you were younger. I would have thought that was something the Holmes' boys would do. He told me you would try to deduce things about one another or something like that. Did you ever find anything suspicious?"

Mycroft slowly shook his head and then a frown developed on his face. He wondered why John was reffering to a time so long ago.

"How long has this self-destructive activity been going on for, John?"

"I think he said fourteen? I don't quite remember; I was panicking about him too much when he told me. Well, he didn't really tell me. I saw blood and sort of... spoke... yeah... I won't go into details."

"_Fourteen_?"

John watched Mycroft's frown broaden from a mere facial expression to visible disappointment in his body language.

Mycroft groaned for a moment while he attempted to recall memories, "I would have either been at university or been too busy to involve myself in his childish games."

John raised his bushy eyebrows, "Maybe that was why," he mumbled under his breath as he imagines a young and lonely Sherlock trying to deduce the world outside his window and growing more bored, lonely and possibly sad by the second.

"Christ, what a complicated child my brother is," John felt like if he raised his eyebrows any further they might zoom straight off of his face, Mycroft never really gave Sherlock the respect John thought Sherlock deserved and he still refered to the man as a child. Not many people considered that this was because the middle-aged man still saw his younger brother as an innocent child. John had picked up on Mycroft's care for Sherlock, as well as his distaste in some of the things his brother does, but there were some emotions an ordinary person could not deduce, "So, what are you going to do?"

"Me? Are you going to help?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and tapped his long finger rhythmically on his desk, "Well, clearly I wish to do something. Although I see no reasoning in this ridiculous behaviour I would rather he did not harm his self for his own safety. I know that it was a rash decision when you spoke to me and, John, I can assure you that I am not as unreasonable as you presumed. I am leaving the decisions up to you. If it were down to me a rehabilitation centre would definitely be the direction I would opt for. However, I am starting to see that Sherlock might frighten away the nurses and regress even more. You are in charge of the decisions, as long as you frequently report to me with any updates."

John exhaled noisily in relief. He could not be happier that Mycroft was not going to take control. It was his initial thought that his brother would send an army to 221B to control Sherlock's behaviour. He expressed his gratitude by thanking Mycroft who was already reading a newspaper. John was slightly irked by Mycroft's lack of genuine care and how his only concern was for his brother to stop. However, he knew expecting more emotion from one of the Holmes' boys was simply a fantasy.

John was about to open the door when Mycroft said one last thing.

"Possibly, installing cameras in 221B is not such a bad idea."

John laughed. He hoped that was just Mycroft's dry sense of humour seeping through. He then retrieved his vague giggle because he remembered that it was possibly not a joke. Knowing Mycroft and his icy ways, John paused and decided not to look back at the man.

John opened the door and cautiously made his way through the posh building. He headed towards the door. When he had opened the heavy white entrance to the building he slipped out and a voice startled him.

_A baritone voice._

"What were you doing with my brother?" It was Sherlock's voice. It was definitely Sherlock's voice. The baritone noise that resonated through John's ears was the one voice John had really hoped not to hear.

"Honestly, are you a consulting stalker now or something?"

* * *

They shared a taxi back to the busy street they lived on. John sat there glaring out of the window as Sherlock sat next to him. Sherlock was silent apart from the abnormally sizeable huff of air which occurred more than a few times. If their was no heat in the cab his dense breaths would be visual in the air and fill up the small vehicle like the smoke from an impressive dragon.

The journey could not be any longer. John unconsciously tapped his foot.

Finally, they returned to the familiar road and passed the crowded station before the taxi pulled up. Sherlock hopped out sulkily and left John to hand a wad of cash to the driver.

"Thank you, mate, erm," the driver paused for a moment whilst he considered something and John waited impatiently but attempted to not be rude, "I hope _you two_ get everything sorted out."

John did not even bother to correct him by expressing that he was not _with_ the taller man. He then wondered how apparent their anger was.

He simply walked on to the tough, concrete floor outside his flat and scurried into the door before Sherlock had the chance to slam it in his face and he slipped in to glimpse Sherlock hurrying up the steps. He had his own keys, so if Sherlock would have closed the door on him it would not have been the end of the world. However, he would prefer it if Sherlock did not physically shut him out as well and building walls around himself mentally.

"Sherlock!" the short man screamed for the man who had stormed up the stairs in a manner that John had never experienced before. If he would have stepped any harder on the weak stairs they would have come crumbling down.

John scampered up the steep steps and tripped on the third stair from the landing because of his desperate hurry. He swore as he felt his ankle click and twist slightly. That was not his main concern currently. He carried on walking through the hint of pain until he found Sherlock curled up in a diminutive ball in his armchair.

"Honestly?" John asked, "You are going to sulk?"

Sherlock sniffed furiously and clinched his jaw tightly.

"You told him, didn't you?" he was speaking tardily and seemingly calm, despite the slight raising of his voice and there was a subtle shake in his voice that John had never associated with Sherlock Holmes.

"I had to," said John as he crouched down so that he was at eye level with his friend.

"You know what he will do. He will try to control me and not because he cares, just because he feels obliged to. He'll put me in some psychiatric ward so I am confined and pictured as a proper _madman_, he will take control of more cameras over London and track down my every move. I am not having him treat me like some experiment."

"Actually, I think he might be above that."

"Well I'm certainly not."

"Sorry?" John asked.

"Bottom left pocket of your coat. The one you never check."

John reached into the untouched pocket of his coat which he had forgotten to remove in all the hassle. He found a small object which looked slightly mechanical. Sherlock had been tracking John.

"So, this is a confession?"

"It's how I follow you."

John rolled his eyes, "Why? How? Wha - Don't even bother, actually. That was a waste of time asking."

Sherlock raised the corner of his mouth in contempt. He said nothing more.

"Hang on, how do you manage when I don't wear my coat?"

"Damn," the consulting detective cursed, "It's relatively simple to track a phone if you can weave through the security."

"And of course _you_ can."

"Of course I can," Sherlock retorted.

"I guess I can leave my phone at home and check my pockets when I want to be left alone in the future."

"I guess," Sherlock said, "That is incredibly boring though."

John didn't know what to say. He was swimming in a pool of words but none of them would connect. He wanted to say something sincerely powerful and reassuring but attempting to calm Sherlock down would be a meaningless task.

_He was waiting for Sherlock to say something._

_Anything._

John watched as Sherlock stared vacantly towards John's chair. He tried to grab his attention by stifling a cough but that was a pointless idea.

"He's your brother. I _had_ to tell him and I instantly regretted it. He considered doing a few things that I knew you would not be happy with and were not the best recovery plans for you," Sherlock snorted at the word recovery, "Anyway. I talked him out of those ideas and he is leaving me to help you without him. He won't do anything that will make you uncomfortable."

"I don't want your _help_."

"Tough luck. You're getting it."

Sherlock blinked a few times and opened his mouth to say something. He paused for a moment as gravity pulled at his jaw, then he said nothing.

John sighed, this silent treatment really was not something he anticipated. He was not a fan of Sherlock's sulky behaviour.

"He had to know. He's your brother and no matter what he taught you with that 'caring' and 'not-caring' lark, he does care. Sometimes I think the only thing he cares about is you, Sherlock," John whispered to his friend comfortingly.

"Please, stop pretending you care. I agreed to have a flat-mate those years ago, I never wanted to live with a man who would to have to stretch themself to behave utterly fake and concerned around me.

"Look, Sherlock, that's really unhealthy. People do care and, sure, others don't. That doesn't take away from the fact that you have friends... You've got me, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and your family and others, I'm sure, that have grown to put up with your weird ways and each one of your strange ways. I don't want to offend you by saying this, but I would like to see if we can get something done... medically."

"And by medically, you mean you want to send me to a loony bin."

"No, I already said we will not make you endure that. Plus, I'm pretty sure that wasn't politically correct... It's just, you've always labelled yourself as a sociopath but I don't think that you are. I think there is something wrong, and I know that can be offensive but it is just the truth. We can get you speaking to a professional and trustworthy psychiatrist and get you some medication to help you through."

"No," Sherlock said plainly.

"Don't knock it until you try it. Sherlock, please do this. For me?"

"I said no, John. I most certainly meant what I said," he paused, "I don't want to slow myself down with pills."

John sighed and repeatedly tapped his finger on his right knee. He looked at Sherlock's defined face and noticed how tired and drained he looked. John had only known about the self harm for less than a day but suddenly the man's lifeless eyes seemed so much more concerning. John wanted to do something that would magically make Sherlock a happy man. He would never want to _normalise_ him because normalising Sherlock would mean that John would not be staring at someone who even vaguely resembled the lanky, cold-hearted but amazing detective that he knew. He just wanted to help; Sherlock was going to make that a very difficult task.

The help from Mycroft did not look promising. John stood up and wandered for a moment. The thought crossed his mind that if he was ever in real need of help Sherlock had told him that Lestrade was not naïve to his self-destructive behaviour. '_Maybe_,' John wondered, '_T__alking to Greg might help. At least he will understand something_.'

John roamed into the chromatically green kitchen. He grabbed a small biscuit to nibble on while he thought about what he could do to help Sherlock. He couldn't think of anything. From what John could see, Sherlock had been dropped and shattered like fine glass. Something had pushed him to the point of putting himself in - what any average person would consider - agonising pain. John had no clue what had pushed him to become so destructive. Even if he couldn't find out, one way or another, he would figure out a way to help his friend and drag him out of the dark road he had crawled down for too long. No matter what happened, he would do something.

"Listen Sherlock, whatever you say, whatever you feel or whatever you do will not change the fact that..." he paused and took a lengthy breath in, preparing himself to say something blunt, "_You really need some fucking help_."


	7. Invisible

Sherlock had gone into _shut-down_ mode, as John called it. He had not uttered a single word in his profound voice. He just sat there staring blankly into the distance until he wandered through to his bedroom.

The door stayed shut...

John had stayed in the house and had not seen the consulting detective. He presumed the scrawny man was sulking childishly.

Mary had come around to 221B for some tea and biscuits. Her and Mrs Hudson were the only other people who had been in the cluttered flat, and they had not seen the inconsiderate, but misunderstood man either.

John had texted Lestrade to ask if he had any updates from Sherlock via phone, he did not mention the self harm and Sherlock's problems. Worrying Lestrade was something he wished to avoid at all costs. Lestrade replied saying that he had not been answering his texts about the cases. This was uncharacteristic and John was starting to worry immensly.

After two days of the man not answering his phone, and not leaving the room to get to the necessities he would desperately need if he weren't Sherlock, John decided to knock on the door. He did so anxiously, because Sherlock had not been impressed the last time they spoke.

He knocked once._ No answer._

He knocked five times to a rhythmic beat. Still, _no answer._

"Sherlock," he softly started, "I know you're in there. At least grab a bite to eat, you need something."

If John weren't mistaken, he thought he heard a slight shuffling noise. Sherlock said nothing, though.

"I'm coming in."

He lightly pressed against the door and furrowed his eyebrows when it didn't move. John then glimpsed down at the door knob and took hold of it, he twisted it sternly and braced himself to literally grab Sherlock under the armpits and drag him into the living room to stuff somecrusty, burnt toast down his throat.

He peeped through the door at Sherlock's bed and could not see the detective. He thrusted his arms into the door until he finally caught a visual image of the detective.

He was a sight for sore eyes.

His normally bouncy curls were greasyas they drooped down his face, his glazy blue eyes were puffy, he sat on his silky, royal blue dressing gown wearing baggy trousers and an unclean hoody and John could smell something pungent. Of course, he had not heard the water cascade in Sherlock's shower for a long time.

John floated his firm fingers over his temples on either side of his skull, rubbing softly, he let out a sigh.

"Jesus..." John exhaled, "Sherlock... What are we going to do with you?"

The seemingly oxygen-less air in the room was soundless.

John furrowed his eyebrows as he stared at Sherlock's dilated pupils. He placed a finger on his cold skin and furrowed his eyebrows as he suddenly realised what was happening.

"Christ, Sherlock, are you high?" he asked and rushed his words as he spoke, "Sherlock? Sherlock? Hey, hey, hey, you idiot! You'll be okay."

His lanky best friend continued to stare into the distance and refused to speak to John. He seemed to not acknowledge his existence in the moment.

John hopped up to his feet and hurried around Sherlock's room. He was going to look everywhere. He first placed his head under the bed, it looked empty, but there seemed to be some empty measuring beakers and science equipment stored under there. He then bundled the duvet in his arms and lobbed it in the opposite direction to Sherlock.

There was nothing under the bed.

He was searching everywhere he could. He opened the glass door and rushed into the bathroom. He had not properly checked Sherlock's symptoms, but he knew he had not left his room in an extremely extended time and he did not look healthy or _normal_.

John decided to pause his search of the bathroom, so he trembled and tripped back into Sherlock's room.

"Ah, John," he listened unexpectedly to the baritone voice that resonated from the corner of the room, "What are you doing in here?"

"Sherlock, cut the crap. Where is it?" asked John angrily.

"Where is what?" he groaned.

John shook his head in disbelief. The detective had ignored John like he was an invisible spirit, and then he pretended to not have known what was going on.

"The drugs, whatever it was you have taken."

"Drugs?" Sherlock questioned, he genuinely looked confused.

"Are you really that fucking high that you cannot _remember_ you're high?"

"I am obviously not high, John."

"What? Sherlock, what is going on?" John exhaled heavily and panted in exhaustion from his concerned searching of the flat.

"I looked up and you were rushing manically around my room, I haven't a single clue as to why."

John sighed, "Sherlock, don't deduce anything by looking out of the window at the sun or at the state of my clothes or whatever the hell it is you do. Just, answer me this: what time is it and what day is it?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Just tell me what you think." John encouraged him to speak with a kind gesture.

"A few hourse or more after you mindlessly told me I needed some sort of useless help."

John's eyes instantly widened with tremendous concern, "Sherlock, that was over two days ago..."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and obnoxiously scoffed as if to say it wasn't that long ago; when he looked into John's eyes he bit his tongue.

John worriedly looked at the dumbfounded man, "Do you honestly not remember me calling your name? Mrs Hudson and Mary also called to try to get you out, I told them nothing about why I thought you'd shut yourself away. They just wanted to see you. Plus, I hear Lestrade sent you numerous texts that you did not answer."

Sherlock shook his head and stared at the ground before proceeding to snatch his phone desperately from a pocket in the dressing gown he sat on and checking for the texts. John shifted his neck so he could see what the man's reaction was and sure enough he was speechless.

John sympathetically smiled at Sherlock.

"I mean it isn't like you were catatonic, I swear I have listed to you moving a bit, you just filtered out so much more than you normally would. Well – everything you filtered everything out, I guess," John remarked. "I mean, it was like some _serious_ dissociation going on there, Sherlock. I don't like seeing this road you're spiralling down getting worse and worse and more worrying."

"Don't you _dare_ start," Sherlock ordered John, the mere thought that John was expressing care completely disgruntled the younger man.

"I can't _not_. It's worrying and I am not arguing about this any more. If you won't help yourself then I will get you help, no matter what you say."

Sherlock grunted.

John rolled his eyes with dissatisfaction, "I'm phoning Ella."

"Ella?" he asked hurriedly, "Ella who?"

"My psychotherapist, counsellor, therapist even... I'm not a hundred percent sure what the correct title for what she does is any more – she was _that_ helpful. She's great, really great. Even if you don't get on that well, I'm sure she can do _something_."

"No, John," Sherlock sternly said, "I point-blank refuse to go to some pretentious idiot with a notepad." He crossed his arms like a six-year-old, stubborn boy.

"Sherlock..." John began tiredly.

"Nope."

John inhaled a deep breath of the tight air, "Doctors orders, Sherlock."

* * *

_Fun fact: I wrote some of this while I was very drunk and supposed to be sobering up and on my phone when everyone was asleepat my friends house... shh, thank god I can edit (TMI ALERT: I was sick around eight times and thats definitely a record for me, I should not be proud!) "We all do silly things" Molly Hooper comes to me in these times of need _


	8. All At Once

Sherlock point-blank refused to leave the house, even for vaguely interesting cases. He sulked on the couch, huddled in a foetal position, ignoring John, but his shorter friend had no clue whether the situation was getting worse or if Sherlock was just fuming internally. Either way, his behaviour was not healthy.

He definitely would not get up and get out to visit a therapist.

This left John with one risky option.

He sat on his bed, tapping his fingers nervously. John felt a vague sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach, as he knew Sherlock was against this decision. He had always been a considerate man and the idea of hurting his cranky friend was dreadful.

_The idea would be so easy though._

Ella's number was on his speed dial.

John was desperate for someone who could actually make a beneficial difference to his friend. Sherlock had been deteriorating before his eyes.

He tapped his finger repeatedly for another minute. Then, he pressed dial.

The firm, professional, reassuring voice answered the telephone, "Hello?"

"Hello, Ella. It's John Watson," he said shakily.

"John, it's always great to hear from you! Are you okay? If I'm being honest... you don't sound all that great."

"I'm worried about a friend," he whispered to avoid Sherlock hearing his anxious voice.

"Okay, that's absolutely normal," she assured him. "Do you want an appointment to talk about it?"

John bit his lip hard for a moment and inhaled, "Actually, on your card it says you do home visits. My friend, he lives, erm, he lives with me. I was wondering if you could talk to him?"

There was an absent pause on the device John held by his ear. He worried that she might refuse.

"Sure, I have loads of slots during the next week. When would be best for you?" she asked.

John paused; he was contemplating. He twitched his lips. Mentally, he was thinking of when Sherlock might decide to exit this sulk. His friend was never very good at forgiving, John thought that he possibly was not capable of it.

"_Soon_."

"I can do tomorrow at half past three in the afternoon? Or we could go earlier if you don't mind a shorter appointment..."

"Three is fine. I need to give him time to accept that he will be seeing a therapist, to be honest. He might not want a long appointment, but three is certainly the best time. He probably won't comply, but," he stifled a laugh, "he certainly needs the help."

"John, can I please ask what the real problem is?"

John composed himself, although he was a man with strong morals he knew that thinking of whatever had travelled through Sherlock's mind made him feel like tears would whelm in his 'soldier-strong' and 'uncapable-of-tears' eyes instantly.

"He's been _self harming._"

"Oh."

'"_Oh_",' John thought, '_Was that all she was able to say?_'

"Ella?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to say that offensively. I know it is a common problem, but even as a therapist who comes across this regularly, it still startles me that people do _that_ to themselves. I'll talk to him tomorrow at three o'clock."

"Thank you, thank you so much. I'll tell him that now," he praised.

"Sorry, it is 221 Baker Street, right?"

"221B. It's a flat."

"Thanks, John. Thank you for letting me know and I might see you briefly tomorrow when I come and talk. I hope he is okay with me coming, if not just let me know and we can cancel or rearrange. Goodbye."

There was a short beep and then everything went silent. The dead silence sent a strange shiver down John's spine.

"He will have to be okay with it..."

John lightly punched his forehead with a clenched fist. He's better tell Sherlock that he would be having a reluctant conversation tomorrow with a "_pretentious idiot with a notepad_."

He tip-toed down the abruptly steep stairs of the flat and paused likehe was controlled by a remote at the bottom of the steps. Unwillingly, he pushed the door open.

"Sherlock?"

A grunt came from the detective, then his cobalt eyes met John's. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Clean yourself up. Three o'clock tomorrow. Your having an appointment with Ella, she's coming here."

Sherlock started to chuckle.

"And Sherlock," said John, "I'm not pissing around or joking here."

He stared at his friends defined face as it suddenly changed to a more sombre and confused expression. Sherlock was speechless, John would have normally considered that a first, but lately he had witnessed Sherlock's abnormal behaviour and these odd mannerisms were seeming more and more usual.

"I said I'm not doing that, John, cancel everything, because you are wasting your time."

"No," he scoffed, and then walked back up the stairs and into his room.

* * *

Sherlock did not close his eyes or even recline gently on his mattress that night. He merely worried. John had told people that he trusted about Sherlock's secret and now it was barely a secret. Sherlock had not ever really relied on anyone, or even talked about his problems. The very idea of it severely intimidated him, and he was _Sherlock Holmes._

He sat on the uncomfortable armchair in his room and he clutched his skinny legs to his torso. The flat was chilly this early in the morning. The iciness of the air caused him to shiver; he was not wearing a silky robe to bring him a cosy warmth. The nip of the cold room was suffocating for his body and he craved something warm, but sleeping was not something he needed, so he refused to crawl through the darkness into his warming sheets to catch a wink of sleep.

He did not want to sleep.

It was peculiar how he always wished he'd be occupied with a case or something to exercise his mind, but now he simply didn't care. All he could dream of was _not_ having to talk to some therapist. Even though he knew he had a choice... he did not want to disappoint John.

He breathed a heated puff of air through his corrupted lungs. There was a patent feeling of emptiness in his chest, something he had always felt, but never acknowledged. The bitterness of his life had caught up on him; it dragged out tediously and destroyed him. He felt more and more like he could _feel_ every day. It was ruining him. Scratching away at his mind constantly.

And it was getting worse.

* * *

John had slept for a while, but he continued to shuffle uncontrollably in his bed. His eyes flickered open for a long period as he gasped for air.

His nightmares had almost always been induced by the devastating effects of his PTSD. However, for the last couple of nights they had been absent of memories of fights and deafening gunshots.

He'd worried so much about Sherlock's current state that he constantly pictured himself walking into the flat, devoid of piercing riffs on the violin and any other sound, and he'd come across Sherlock's pale, lifeless body surrounded by an expanding pond of fresh crimson.

He attempted to sink deeply back into his dreams like a pebble would eventually sink in the salty sea, but it was useless. His Sherlock-induced mares were causing him to worry about his friend.

Sherlock was a walking 'Danger – Keep Out' sign.

John could not possibly _keep out_.

He was the man people would scream at in suspense films when they ignorantly enter the abandoned, crumbling, old manor house, and Sherlock was that manor house.

* * *

He must have drifted into a sleep after continuously troubling over Sherlock. John yawned loudly and squinted uncomfortable as he realised that Sherlock had finally grabbed his violin and started playing loud melodys.

It was later than Sherlock would normally awake him like a breathing alarm clock. John thought that the man had possibly had a good nights sleep and that was why he had decided to play the instrument so early.

However, when he stumbled down the stairs and into the living room he re-contemplated this idea. Sherlock's loose curls were uncontrolled and greasy as they clinged to his skin. John sighed deeply when he saw him.

A moment of eye contact was all John needed to persuade him to talk. "Are you planning on having a shower and, you know, making yourself presentable?"

"Possibly."

"That was... helpful."

John staggered over to the crowded kitchen, he dodged Sherlock's important-looking experiments and grabbed some bread to put in the toaster.

"Have you eaten?" he asked Sherlock.

"Yes."

John inhaled deeply. "Is that a lie?"

"Hmm. I thought that was too obvious. You did not have any particular need to question it."

"So, it is a lie."

Sherlock nodded while staring at his violin that he had rested on the table next to John's chair.

John nodded, to mirror Sherlock in a response. "This is for you then," he stated as the toast popped sprightly out of the toaster and he placed it on to a delicate china plate. Then, he grabbed a tub of full-fat butter and generously dolloped it on the crumbling toast. He wandered over to the table near Sherlock's arm-chair and gently placed the plate there. He gestured with his right hand towards the plate. "Eat up."

Sherlock groaned in resistance, but John stared at the man. Then Sherlock unwillingly took hold of the crusty toast and nibbled on the edge.

"You don't have to look super presentable, you know. Just have a shower so you look a little less... homeless."

Sherlock swallowed a diminutive bite of the toast. "What's wrong with being homeless. I have a useful network."

"Yeah. I gathered that," joked John. "There's nothing wrong, it's just if Ella is concerned about you, I presumed you might have known this already, there's a confidentiality act but she can disclose information and refer you to... further treatment... if the need arises."

"Thanks for _not_ letting me know sooner," muttered Sherlock sarcastically.

"You do realise that this is entirely up to you. I can phone her any time and cancel," John said, "Although, I would be very disappointed if you did not give it a go."

"Ah, the _guilt trip_."

John chuckled, although he was far from amused.

"Sherlock, I want the best for you and this is going to help."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and continued to stare at his toast like it was an enemy. "I'm going for that shower now."

* * *

Sherlock's body tensed as there was a faint ring from the doorbell. Someone had pressed it once, firmly and without hesitation. Someone professional

It must have been Ella's ring.

He was almost thankful that he did not have to wait any longer. He knew he would sit through the session impatiently, as he waited for it to finish as soon as possible.

John sat opposite Sherlock, on his chair. He looked up as their bell sounded and looked at Sherlock. "It'll be fine."

Sherlock murmured an indistinguishable noise and frowned. His half eaten toast had still not been cleared away and he had skipped lunch. He was lacking in energy and the exhaustion was causing the 'emotionless' man to feel slightly anxious.

Not that he would tell anyone. He was still a sociopath... It's just the pain from his last lapse had stayed around for a while, so he'd been feeling emotions.

John nodded at Sherlock as if to ask if he was okay, but Sherlock pretended to not notice his friend's attempt at a subtle, kind gesture.

"I'll show her up here," John offered. "Don't move."

He then proceeded to push himself up until he was standing, walk on over to the door and exit the flat to let the therapist inside.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stood up and made his way to his room. If she felt the necessity to do her tiresome job, then she could do it while Sherlock sat in the comfort of his own bed. This was not something Sherlock usually did, but he was feeling odd when he thought about what he was about to face. He needed to go somewhere he felt comfortable and safe.

John made his way down the stairs and opened the door to reveal Ella. She had neat hair, dark skin and dressed in a long blue skirt and a fitted blazer buttoned over her shirt.

"John, it's wonderful to see you!" greeted Ella, joyfully.

John smiled. "Hi, you too – he's this way."

"How is he feeling about this meeting?"

John sighed. "I think he's irked that I made the appointment, but he didn't say to cancel it. I guess that's a good sign."

Ella lightly patted John's stiff shoulder blade, but then she quickly retreated her hand.

They made their way up the steep steps. John went first. Ella followed.

When he reached the top of the staircase he composed himself. "He's in here," said John. Then he pushed the door open and made his way through the clear opening. He stared at Sherlock's empty seat and sighed.

"Well, he's was in here."

"Sherlock?" both of them called calmly for the troubled man.

The air that circulated the flat was silent for a moment.

"For God's sake, I'm in here," a muffled voice sounded from the exact direction of Sherlock's room.

John exhaled and lead Ella over to Sherlock's room. He opened the door to reveal the detective perched on his bed, cross-legged, and tugging the warm duvet up to his neck.

"Right, I'd better be off," said John.

"_Stay_," Sherlock commanded softly. "I would... like you to."

John nodded. He gestured towards the chair next to the cupboard in Sherlock's room and Ella silently sat on the uncomfortable seat. She would rather stand, but to be polite and not intimidating she stayed put.

She smiled and Sherlock and reached into her pocket. Sherlock scowled at her with squinted eyes.

"Hello, Sherlock. My name is-"

"I know who you are... and I know more than _that_."

"Sherlock, let her do her job. You're not the one who needs to make any wild deductions today, so take a damn day off," John interrupted.

Sherlock grunted and buried his angular face in his duvet.

"Okay, I take it you already know, I am Ella. I'm going to take some notes, if you don't mind."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John stared at him in a way that told Sherlock to not tell her that he did actually mind. A lot.

"So, Sherlock, I need you to understand that every thing you say is confidential unless you are putting yourself or others in danger. In that case I will–"

"Have to disclose personal information," interrupted Sherlock.

"Yes," said Ella. "Now, John tells me you have had some problems with self harm?"

Sherlock felts the four eyes in the room, that were not his, brand into his skin like a raging fire. They were judging and expecting and Sherlock detested it. He simply looked down and transformed subtly into a smaller shape. He was subconsciously shrinking in shame.

"He has," John informed her.

"Thank you, John. That's very helpful, but I really need Sherlock to speak for himself if that's okay."

John agreed by smiling at Ella and then glancing sympathetically at Sherlock.

"I know it is not easy to talk about," Ella continued. "However, it would be really helpful if you answered some of my questions."

"Then why don't you question me, rather than mindlessly attempting your job."

Ella looked a little taken aback. Her jaw had plummeted and she looked slightly offended. She fixed this expression quickly and regained her bright smile.

"Sherlock, when did this start?"

"When I was a teenager," he answered reluctantly.

"Okay, that is actually more common than people think. Problems like self-injury do tend to arise during adolescence. Has it always been a problem, or have you gone through it for a while and then relapsed? Or..."

"It's not some childish phase."

"I know that."

Sherlock glared at the therapist. "It's always been an ongoing problem. I imagine it is getting worse."

Ella smiled at Sherlock like she understood. Sherlock had to keep the urge to literally gag hidden.

"Would you like to stop?"

John looked expectantly of Sherlock and his facial expression changed to dissapointment quickly when he listened to the detectives profound voice say the word _no_.

"Why not?" asked Ella.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Look, Sherlock, I see this problem a lot. I know loads of people who want to stop this habit and I would like to know why you would not want to stop."

Sherlock shrugged.

Ella and John simultaneously sighed.

"Self harm is a serious issue, and if we can work out a reason why you do it and why you do not want to stop then we can help you recover," reassured Ella.

"Don't you see? I do not want to stop. I am fine. There is nothing wrong with me. I do not need you here," Sherlock raised his voice.

"Are you angry?"

"I do not feel emotions."

Ella pursed her lips and looked at her high-heeled shoes as she contemplated something. She tapped the pen against the notepad and quickly scribbled something down.

Sherlock glimpsed at the notepad. "_I am not in denial_."

"You two are both very talented at reading upside down," she used her pen to gesture at both Sherlock and John. "That's always worrying behaviour."

"Can you shut up, unless you know, more or less, what you are waffling on about."

"_Sherlock_," John scorned.

Sherlock stared at the woman who was unusually placed in his room. She crossed her legs and sat upright with a proper posture. She was frowning, so she generally showed concerned for him. He knew deep down that she was a talented therapist and she was not great at deduction, but she was great at reading people and bosy language.

"I'm not meant to deduce, John told me to refraint from doingso earlier," said Sherlock, "I'm good at deduction. I know that you are unhappily married, loyal and that your daughter is also a self harmer. I can't tell you how I know, John said I can't, so I will not," he slowed down and looked at Ella, who seemed utterly bewildered. "Anyhow, I can read all that about you. I know you are not skilled in deduction like me, but you can read body language. Tell me what _you_ see when you look at me."

Ella hesitated momentarily. "I see someone who is nervous. You're whole body has turned in on itself showing your anxiety. You don't enjoy speaking to people. It is not particularly cold today and the heating is on, anyway you still wrapped yourself in a blanket and a thick one at that. So, you are using it as some layer of protection and comfort, which suggests that you are nervous. That straight away showed me you were lying when you said you don't feel emotions–"

"_Self-proclaimed_ high-functioning sociopath," interrupted John. "Sorry."

"I don't know if it is my presence making you nervous, my job, your problems or anything. I'm here to help. To do that I need to know what the problem is."

"I don't feel emotions. That wasn't a lie. I can make myself feel. I feel numb most of the time, unless there's _pain. _It's all good when there is pain. Better."

"So, in a way, you could say that it makes you feel more alive?"

"I haven't a clue."

John held his hand in front of his mouth; listening carefully.

"Sherlock, how do you feel when you hurt yourself?"

"Better, I suppose," he answered quietly.

"There are other ways to feel better."

"I don't care if there are other ways."

No one said anything. Sherlock knew that if he was alone at this moment he would be holding his trusty blade. Alas, he was not. He sat there silently, reluctantly attempting to talk. It was not working. Therapy was supposed to help. He wanted to desperately shut the world out.

"I would like to end this _session_ now," he said distastefully.

Ella retained a sigh. "Okay, that's fine."

"I'll show you out," offered John politely.

"Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

They left quickly.

Suddenly, Sherlock was all alone.

The temptation to grab his blade was so awfully bad that his skin was itching.

He unravelled his bony body from the sheets and stood up. Sherlock stared at the cupboard where he hid his razor-sharp friends, he trembled over to the cupboard, pulled out the draw, grabbed the hidden box of all his harmful possessions and just held them.

It all happened extremely quickly.

He slammed his eyes shut like doors and tried to find something to calm him down. He walked slowly through the pure corridors of his mind palace and opened every door full of different memories that he had filtered away. The place resembled his very first case with John. That case had changed him. John had changed him. The good memories that bought him joy and peace were so few. Mostly, he would open doors to memories he had tried to forget. _Secrets_ that remained _secrets_; memories that made him want to retreat to a corner and cry from the trauma that he had never felt at the time.

He felt it now.

It was like he could feel again, but all at once. The emotions he had lost normally reappeared with pain but right now he had the power to destroy himself in his own skinny hands.

Why was he feeling now?

Something had changed recently, something huge, and he was feeling different. Lost. This was not him. He was midnlessly wandering around a maze. The relapse the other day had caused him enough pain to bring him a longer lasting relief from his consuming emptiness. He was feeling all the terrifying, alien emotions he had stored away and he was realising that this was not right.

He was feeling.

Emotions.

Emotions.

Eomtions.

The corner was looking inviting.

He wished to retreat and forget.

He closed his eyes and stood there.

A muffled noise reawakened him from the almost-dreaming state he was lost in.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John was saying trying to get his attention. "Why have you made this mess?" he asked, looking at the floor.

"I, er, I don't – John?" he felt his eyes whelming with a peculiar wetness.

John held Sherlock's trembling shoulder comfortingly.

"Something is wrong," Sherlock said shakily. "_please_, take this away from me. Take it."

Sherlock handed the box he had gripped to his friend, who accepted it with a confused look on his face. John touched the cold surface and opened the box.

Blades.

A lighter.

A used, rusting syringe.

A couple of packets encasing pills. One half empty.

_'Oh God...' _thought John.

John frowned. "Jesu..., Sherlock," he breathed. He rummaged carefully through the box.

"It's okay," said John. "I've got you, I've got this, you're safe from it all. Just – I think you need to lie down."

John stared at Sherlock. He had felt abnormal worry for the scrawny man for the past week, no amount of worry could beat what he felt now. John traced his eyes up and down Sherlock's trembling body.

He had never looked so _human_.


	9. Stop Crying Your Heart Out

_I swear, I'm super-duper sorry about the slow updates. I am going to try to update this fic more than once a week with long updates. I just have loads of revising to do for my GCSE's and I'm not the smartest cookie so I need to work hard if I want to get into the courses I really want to do at sixth form!_

_Anyway,** reviews keep me strong**, even if they are just one word. I know this is probably a bribe, but I the more helpful, constructive or just kind and encouraging reviews I get, the more likely I am to update regularly!_

**_BEFORE READING:_**

_...Oh and by the way, I wrote a lot of this chapter while listening to Stop Crying Your Heart Out but Oasis. I feel like a lot of people should know that song, but if you don't you should probably listen to it either before or during reading this chapter. That applies for everyone! I feel like it is a sort of nostalgic song. To be honest any vaguely nostalgic song would be good and atmospheric for this chapter. I do reference that specific song though. I don't even know why, but I feel like I need to suggest that you listen to it while reading :P_

* * *

John's last call for help was Lestrade. The silver-haired, gritty-voiced, stern and soft man was John's final hope.

He sent him a short text saying that he had found out about Sherlock's worsening problem with self harm, and Sherlock had told him that Lestrade already knew at least something about Sherlock's issues.

Lestrade's reply simply said:_ Is he still doing that?_

John gawked at the response. John knew Lestrade as a kind man who cared. He felt fires of rage illuminate inside him. It was like his furious attitude was stampeding, he could not believe that someone could make such an ignorant comment.

And then the next text came through.

It read:_ Right John. I will come and talk to him, I used to know what to do, but it's been a while. Like, a really long time. I can't fathom why he does it. I have work to do, but I can say that a serious matter has come up and leave asap. I should be able to pop round in about four hours, but that's the best I can do._

John nodded and appreciated that Lestrade did care. John was a worried man. He was fidgeting impulsively.

Leniently, he pressed the sensitive keys on his phone and thanked Lestrade.

It was early on a Tuesday morning, and John had to get to work in an hour. His head was fuzzy first thing in the morning, so he decided to clean up. He spent ten minutes under the warmth of a shower, carefully shaved the careless stubble that had grown around his chin, packed a rucksack with some essentials for the day and rushed down the stairs to concoct a simple breakfast of toast and Nutella or hazelnut spread; if they even had that in the fridge. It was likely that they would have nothing.

He froze like ice before he stepped into the kitchen. There was no melodic tune playing on a violin. The flat was eerily quiet. John attempted to sweep the thought away, but he just couldn't. Every breath of air felt like something was wrong. He shuddered. The flat was empty and cold when there was no noise.

It was impossible to imagine living in a place like this without Sherlock.

"Sherlock are you here? Are you in there?" he whispered as he made his way towards the slightly ajar door.

He mildly pressed on the wooden door. It opened.

John felt relieved to see the undernourished man eventually sleeping. Sherlock needed it.

Last night he had completely melted down, and of all the out-of-character things Sherlock had done that week, this was the most worrying.

John had desperately tried to get help from Mycroft – who had left him to his own resources, Ella – who Sherlock had rudely pushed away, but they obviously had not worked. Now Lestrade was his last hope.

Well, it had not fully occurred to John that he had not first handedly helped Sherlock. He'd tried everything he could, apart from being there when Sherlock needed him the most.

He walked out of the room and hastily glimpsed at his watch. '_Damn_,' he thought as he realised he would be late for work if he did not make breakfast speedily and rush out the door. It was half seven.

He spread the chocolatey hazelnut on toast, that was too burnt for his liking, and then he ate it as quickly as possible. It was getting late. He had to leave immediately.

Before he grabbed his coat and rushed out of the door, he snatched a scrap piece of paper and a pen that had very little ink left inside of the barrel.

He decided to scribble a note for Sherlock.

_Hey Sherlock,_

_I'm sorry for going away, but I had to leave for work and didn't want to disturb you because you were finally sleeping (I'm glad to see you doing that 'sleeping' thing that you say you don't do, by the way.) Anyway, makes sure you are at home in four hours, so make sure you are at home at twelve. Anyway, I have to go. Sorry, I really am, I just needed to get to work and I'm already going to be late so I can't babble on in this note. Bye._

_John_

He tiptoed over to Sherlock's room and slipped the note throught the open door and left it on the wooden floor. Then he scampered out of the flat and into the industrious city of London, hailed a jet-black cab, ordered the driver to take him to the surgery kindly and then relaxed in the back of the car, thinking and worrying about Sherlock. He tried to shake the sense of concern, he told himself repeatedly that he did not have any need to worry. Nothing would happen to him. Sherlock Holmes was entirely safe.

John inhaled dilatory and remembered that he needed to focus on his job as a doctor.

Sherlock would be fine.

* * *

Sherlock's heart palpitated as he panted. The air in his room seemed like it was taken away and he was suffocating. He had been awake for five minutes, but it felt like he was still asleep. A night mare, that's what this should be. Sherlock knew this behaviour he had recently been experiencing was erratic. He couldn't help it.

It was _involuntary_.

He gasped for air ad he felt his lungs collapse and tighten. His throat was as dry as the desert in daylight, he heaved short breaths that were more like gasps and he felt light-headed due to the lack of oxygen.

He felt significantly less numb than he usually did, it was scaring him. Terrifying him to the point of panic. He feared that he was in some sort of consuming ocean and no one was there to pull him out, he was left to drown and choke on the salty seas.

Sherlock's mind palace had always been a place for him to go when he wanted to remember something important, it helped him to solve crimes. However, the place was also shaped from good memories, like his first case with John. It was a place to think, but also a place to drift away to when and if the detective needed the space. The doors hid memories and secreted secrets. It had always been a wonderful site to think. However, during the past couple of weeks it was like the doors had been built out of card, and the monsters and demons that should have been locked away were released and they rampaged around his mind like ricocheting, reckless bullets.

He had managed to block out these memories. He was trying to think about some of the bland cold cases he had worked on. It was no use though, yes, the shallow breaths had died down and he was feeling better, but he was still haunted.

He made his way out of the bed. The cupboard draw was on the floor and he recalled memories of last night. He had ordered John to take his unhealthy coping mechanisms away.

'_Damn_,' he internally cursed.

He was desperate for a release.

Sherlock looked over to the door and saw a feeble piece of thin, screwed-up paper. He stumbled over and pinched the note from the floor; Sherlock read the short message.

John had left it vaguely cryptic: Why did Sherlock have to be here at twelve? Was there going to be an important phone call? A visitor? Why did he need to be here? It's not that he wanted to move, but he did not like being asked to do something.

Despite, Sherlock's initial conclusion, he decided that John had asked someone to come and check on him. The slant of his writing showed that he had rushed the note, the splodges of ink displayed that he was thinking about someone who wasn't Sherlock.

He felt weird making deductions, he had not thought utterly logically for a few days.

One last deduction: by the light way John had pressed the pen to the paper it signified that he had held something relatively heavy with one hand; most likely Sherlock's box of self-destructive tools.

Sherlock groaned. He needed a release. He urgently needed a strong release.

The were no blades that he could get to without John realising. He could, of course, snap them out of the razors, but John used his bathroom from time to time, so he might notice. Also, the army doctor had worried about Sherlock so he would most likely be checking. Cigarettes were too weak for him.

He needed to feel nothing; to relax.

Sherlock wiggled his fingers nervously as he made his next decision. He knew it was going to be difficult to keep a secret and he would not be home at twelve o'clock.

Before he could decide otherwise he had dialled Dave's number.

His dealer.

* * *

Lestrade had finished up at work. He told the staff that he had an urgent matter to tend to, and it was nearly four o'clock. He had promised John that he would check on the damaged detective.

_And he was four hours late._

John would probably be making his way back from work in a couple of hours, but Lestrade had made a promise and it was better late than never.

Lestrade hopped into a silver Vauxhall and got the engine started before driving out of the Scotland Yard car park. He was glad to step into the warmth of the car. It smelled like pine due to the air freshener which hanged from the reflective mirror.

It was raining outside and the drizzling rain was depressing and monotonous.

He drove the vehicle speedily on to the roads of the city. He knew that he was driving slightly over the legal speed limit, but with his position in the police force he knew that he could simply get away with driving slightly too fast.

The last track he had played on the stereo was booming on repeat, so he decided to turn it down. He did not want to be distracted by the haunting resonance of Stop Crying Your Heart Out playing in the background. A little music could never hurt, though, so the song continued to play.

The traffic of the busy streets was infuriating. He was in a rush. Lestrade would have run on foot over to Baker Street any day if Sherlock was in danger, but he knew that it would only put his job in danger.

He groaned at the black Mini in front of him. It seemed that the driver did not have a single clue how to use the indicators or even drive in the correct gear. It swerved nastily on the road. Lestrade roared at the car with his booming voice, and the driver of the car seemed to turn their head around when they recognised the muffled sound. Lestrade rolled his eyes and overtook the car, and this was much to the dismay of other drivers who hooted angrily at the middle-aged man.

He rapidly slowed the car down when he was on a less occupied street. In the fear of hurting anyone he pulled over. He felt the need to calm down from the rage he had experienced when screaming at the idiotic driver of the black Mini.

Lestrade bashed his head in annoyance on the leather wheel of the car, and then continued to drive.

He swerved on to Baker Street, which was surprisingly empty, and slowed down because he was approaching the flat from the far end of the street.

As the window wipers repeatedly ticked from side to side the grey mist of condensation on the window cleared. The achromatic sky boringly lit the street in a dull colour and Lestrade sighed at the misfortune look of the usually busy street.

He indicated right, although there were no cars on the road, as he approached the dull red sign for the café outside of Mrs Hudson's building.

Lestrade turned the stiff steering wheel subtly he noticed a hooded man crouched outside the Baker Street flat. He really could not be bothered to warn a homeless man that it was not right to sleep directly outside of someone's property, but it looked like he was going to have to...

He listened to the dull sound of rain pattering on the roof of the car, and this was muffled by the sounds of the Oasis CD that was reverberating through the mechanical car. The song came to an end with the repressed sounds of a guitar and then it restarted. Stop Crying Your Heart Out had been on repeat for a while now, but he continued to play the anthem because the CD had broken and this was the only song that did not consist of infuriating glitches. It was also a song that Lestrade liked very much.

He pulled the car over in a spot where he was not officially supposed to park and as he opened the door the hooded man gradually lifted his seemingly heavy head.

The mysterious figure had dragged his head just high enough for Lestrade to see the depressed, bloodshot eyes staring at him and the defined face of a–

Lestrade frozen like water turning to ice.

There was no time to turn off the stereo, so it continued to boom the indie rock mucic. He turned the engine off and rushed out of stationary car, while nearly breaking the door of the car when he thrusted it and left it wide open.

"Sherlock?" he panted in concern. "Sherlock!"

He ran for a few metres, but it felt like he had sprinted a marathon.

The man who was weak and groggy crouched on the pavement.

It was certainly Sherlock Holmes, wearing a black, hooded garment, murky jogging bottoms and split open trainers.

"Sherlock, you okay?" Lestrade asked softly.

No reply.

The detective tenderly pulled the consulting detective's hood off to reveal pale, melancholic, cobalt skin.

Sherlock moaned dejectedly.

He was barely breathing. The shallow, sluggish breaths were enough to warn Lestrade that Sherlock had a serious relapse.

Lestrade angrily punched his own forehead. He had been late and left Sherlock outside in the freezing cold barely breathing.

"Listen, Sherlock, how long have you been here?"

Sherlock tilted his head and squinted. "Not long... no," he mumbled. "However, time is unimportant... I just have to not," he took another shallow breath, "To not... not let John see this... ridiculous scene."

Lestrade crouched down until he was next to the detective. "If you didn't want him to see you like this, then you should have stayed clean," Lestrade said affectingly in his raspy voice.

Sherlock weakly tumbled on to his side.

"Shit," cursed Lestrade as he jolted towards Sherlock's scrawny body.

Lestrade protectively held Sherlock's frail hand. He worriedly stared into Sherlock's blue eyes to see his glassy, diluted pupils. Gripping the detectives hand tighter, he felt Sherlock's already powerless hand shakily weaken.

"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay," he assured the weak man. "I'm phoning an ambulance, mate. You'll be fine."

Sherlock's exhausted body feebly crippled in unintentional agony as Lestrade supported him. The human that was built around Sherlock's skeleton reclined on to the older man's lap, as Lestrade dialled 999.

Sherlock inhaled a short gasp.

Undetectably, he exhaled the shallow breath as Lestrade rambled quickly to get an ambulance over as quickly as they could manage.

"You're okay. I'm here," Lestrade said.

"Did... Did," Sherlock shallowly attempted to speak through his flimsy breaths. Lestrade attempted to hush him. "Did John give up on... on me?"

Lestrade was biting back thoughtless tears.

"No Sherlock. No. No one is giving up on you, kid."

"I am no kid."

"When I first spoke to you I thought you were, none of that has changed. I should have fucking gotten you the help before any of this had the chance to happen. You'd be fine if I would have listened to my brain," sobbed Lestrade. His choked voice was difficult for Sherlock to hear. The older, proffessional detective was always so affirmative.

"I'm absolutely... fine," Sherlock murmured.

"You're not. You're really not, you troubled child. I'm here for you. It's okay," Lestrade choked. "I'm right here and I'm certainly not moving."

"Why? Why... do you... care?" Sherlock's breaths were shortening by the second. He was shivering and vacant. It was a wonder that he was managing to respond to Lestrade at all.

"It might surprise you, but there are a few people in this world that will never stop loving you and caring about you."

"That's a lie."

"And you can't deduce properly when you're high."

"I'm definitely not... high!"

"Okay, sure you're not."

Sherlock stank like the murky streets of London. His words sounded dry and abnormally emotional. It was as if Sherlock was crying, but he couldn't.

"C'mon," said Lestrade. "Let's get you sitting in my car. It's warm."

Lestrade placed his strong hands beneath Sherlock's icy cold armpits. He stumbled over the younger detective untied shoelaces while he carried him to the warm car where that same song had continues to play, and play and play.

He placed Sherlock gently on the seat, and squeezed his shoulder in a fatherly way.

"You'll feel better in the warm. It won't be long until the ambulance gets here," Lestrade told Sherlock.

"Don't tell John."

"I have to," Lestrade said to the weak detective. It saddened him severely to go against Sherlock's will. "I'm only doing it because I care. Since I first met you. I cared then and I still care. I'll never stop caring. None of us will. We love you, you're a troubled child and I grant you that, but we love you. even if you don't believe it."

Sherlock shuffled slightly so that he could look at Lestrade. The grey-haired detective stared at the exceptionally vulnerable man. A unwilling tear fell on to the detectives almost-blue, lifeless skin.

"Thank you..." Sherlock managed to force out one last word, "Greg."

"That's right. I am Greg, that's my name," he laughed slightly. "Well done... and I love you. So does John, and..." Lestrade choked on his words as he glimpsed at Sherlock.

The younger man wasn't listening to a word.

His curly hair limply hang over his bloodless face.

To Lestrade it seemed like he was gone. Even though he wasn't.

He was still.

Empty.

Pale.

There was a weak pulse that Lestrade detected through Sherlock's thin neck.

He could only wait for the ambulance and hope.

John's phone call would have to wait. He could do that later.

Lestrade shuffled into the seat which Sherlock was limply sat in. He ruffled the younger man's hair and fondly held him close to his body.

"All of the stars are fading away," he started to hum softly to Sherlock, as he vaguely followed the tune of the constantly playing song on the speakers, "Just try not to worry, you'll see them some day."

Lestrade silently cried as he felt Sherlock's warm breaths shorten more and more. They were dangerously shallow.

"Take what you need," he bit back the unstoppable tears as much as he could. Lestrade had to be strong, for Sherlock. "Be on your way."

Lestrade felt the guilt override his mind, despite Lestrade's emotional response, everything that he had just witnessed from watching the devastating effects of Sherlock's overdose, everything that had just happened had genuinely happened.

_And John Watson was completely oblivious to that._

"Stop crying your heart out," he sang quietly and comfortingly in his gritty voice as he heard distant ambulance sirens.


	10. These Are Serious Problems

_Oops, it appears that the last chapter was full of angst. I should be sorry (but my inner-moffat really isn't!_

_This is another short chapter, just a filler really. I have some... interesting stuff up my sleeve for the next few! (I know, I'm dead evil)_

_Anyway, I will annoyingly repeat that I really, REALLY LOVE REVEIWS! They literally make my day and encourages me to write so much more. Plus, you are all so lovely and it's always nice to hear form you! Thank you for the great reviews on the last chapter!  
_

_If you ever want me to read something of yours, or perhaps just speak to me, don't hesitate!_

_Stay safe, my lovelies_

* * *

That blasted song would not get out of Lestrade's head. Anxiously, he sat inside the ambulance holding Sherlock frail hand, humming to the younger man. The melody had always been a song that sounded like it would give someone happiness, hope, inspiration, "_May your smile shine on, don't be scared_," but Lestrade could never listen to the rock anthem again and think of it in the same way. "_We're all of the stars, we're fading away_'' it was now the sorrowful tune that would inevitably make the older man think of Sherlock dying.

Lestrade had lost Sherlock on the way.

Literally.

The grey haired man walked out of the ambulance to only be speedily overtaken by the worried, hard-working ambulance staff carrying Sherlock weak and spasm prone body into the NHS hospital on a gurney.

Someone had informed him that Sherlock would be taken to a different ward after the doctors had done all they could to help him and get the ghastly poison out of his fleshless body. Lestrade could only sit in a waiting room and, well, wait impatiently.

He could not believe how reckless Sherlock was. Sadly, he recalled the day when Sherlock had told him that he was clean. Lestrade never even assumed that the brilliant man would turn back to this self destructive behaviour. However, he was Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes had always had an addictive personality.

He could surprise anyone.

He was still the addict.

Nervously, he fiddled with his scratched phone.

He had to phone John.

Reluctantly, Lestrade tapped and flicked through his extensive list of surnames in his contacts until he reached W for Watson.

He contemplated how he would break the devastating news to John. It would be difficult. Lestrade questioned why Sherlock had to do this to himself. Why did one of his best friends have to be a self-destructive drug addict? Why couldn't he be addicted to something harmless?

Lestrade whacked his head in against the solid wall behind the blue, plastic chair as he threw his skull backwards in frustration. Angrily, he decided that it was better to phone John now, and get the hurtful news over and done with. Lestrade had no clue how the current situation with Sherlock was going to pan out. There was a chance that Sherlock would be fine, but there was always the chance that he would be intensely damaged by the relapse and he might slip completely. He may start using drugs frequently again.

And there was always the chance that he _wouldn_'t wake up.

Lestrade desperately tried to shake that awful, devastating thought.

Before he knew it he stared down at the well-used camera phone and noticed that he was dialling John Watson.

Then John must have picked up the phone, because Lestrade could hear a muffled, concerned voice saying hello.

"John?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah, everything alright?" he questioned normally.

"No."

"What's wrong?" John nervously asked. Lestrade could detect the rise in panic in his voice, the softened sounds that showed that John had instantly stood up on hearing Lestrade say _no_.

Lestrade glared over at the clinically white wall. The unnatural purity of it made it seem like this building had been made for the innocent, and Lestrade could not get rid of the thought that Sherlock was far from innocent, but, at the same time, he was also the most blissfully innocent man who Lestrade knew. It was extremely complicated.

He tried to disguise the gritty cracks in his voice. "He's in hospital."

"Christ..." John said breathlessly. "What hospital?"

"Oh, Saint Thomas' Hospital, the one on Westminster Bridge Road."

"Right, I'm leaving now. I'll be right there," he stuttered. "I need to rush, can't really talk. I'll hazard a guess that he's cut badly."

"No," corrected Lestrade. "He... it was an overdose. I'm not sure what he took, but I found him on the floor outside your house," he paused as he listened to the absent silence of John. It was as if he had been muted like a television. "He was on the pavement, John. He was _hardly breathing_. He asked me not to tell you, but I can't not. He fucking nearly died, and I don't even know if he's okay now. Shit. Why the hell would he do this again?"

John heaved at Lestrade's brief explanation. The idea that Sherlock had been on the brink of death was enough to make him feel veritably sick.

"I don't know. _Jesus_... I'm coming. I need to leave now," John quickly hang up the phone, without saying another word. He had to leave. He had to get to the hospital.

It was a matter of ultimate urgency.

He had to go now.

He immediately informed the staff at reception that he desperately needed to go, and all appointments,ade with him must be cancelled promptly.

He rushed. Hailing a cab would take far too long, so he ran to the closest underground station and hopped on the Jubilee line. The rackety train whizzed off to the next few stations, where John squeezed past the commuters and sped up the escalators to the point where he was panting like a canine. He sprinted to the hospital.

* * *

Lestrade was shocked to see the scanty man arrive so incredibly quickly. Neither of them said anything. It was either because of the supreme tension or due to the fact that John could not catch his breath. Lestrade realised that he must have used all his strength to get to the hospital quickly.

The men sat side by side and stared at the albescent walls. Sighing, they read through the health posters and drank their scolding hot coffees from paper cups. Nervously, they exhaled and inhaled the chemically clean air into their able lungs.

A nurse tottered through the wooden door. She was wearing a typical nurse outfit for the NHS, her blue dress draped loosely over her knees, she worse sensible shoes and her pocket watch hang proudly by her chest. She was carrying a clipboard with paper attached. She looked up and glimpsed John and Lestrade fidgeting next to each other. "Sherlock Holmes?"

The two men instantly launched themselves out of their seats and pounced towards the mousey woman, causing her to stumble backwards and slip slightly on the gleaming floor. She regained her balance and promptly apologised.

"Would you like to come through into a more private room."

John's heart sank deep in his chest. The '_private rooms_' were usually where the staff broke bad news to the families.

They followed the elegantl and small nurse's lead. She walked them over to a small consultation room, where they sat in slanted, and cushioned more comfortable chairs.

She brushed off her pale blue dress and prompted herself neatly in the soft seat. Casually, she looked up at John and Lestrade. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry, you look so worried! He's stable."

John sighed in sheer relief. Fidgeting and scratching at his forehead anxiously had gotten him through the dragging past hour. At least he now knew that his troubled best friend was alive. That was the only positive thing to have happened since he heard the startling news.

"Is he awake?" asked Lestrade desperately.

"Sorry, sir. He isn't awake right now. We managed to get the toxins out of his body, but to do that we had to administer him more drugs for later pain relief. It's all very complicated and contradictory, but at least he will be... okay. He was in a very, very bad state when the ambulance picked him up. It appears that he had overdosed on heroin or morphine. We can't possibly know for certain what drug he had taken until some blood tests come back, since they are both opium based they have similar sedative effects, so it is tough to tell the difference. When we find out it will help determine the seriousness of his after-care treatment."

"Christ..." murmured John.

"Since he has most likely taken class A drugs, there will obviously be legal matters, but we'll focus on that later-"

"It's fine. I know this man very well and this matter will not be taken any further legally," said Lestrade as he reached inside his pocket and flashed the nurse his important DI card.

"Oh, okay," she muttered nervously; she seemed intimidated by Lestrade's powerful job. "Anyway, the hospital phoned his brother, who refused to come – said he was busy. He assured us that friends should be given info about Sherlock."

"I'm not meaning to be rude, but I would like to just get on with what needs to be said," interrupted John.

"Of course sir, sorry," she said apologetically. "When the staff were changing him into a hospital gown they found some quite nasty wounds and scars around his legs and stomach, there were many of them and some appeared to be– "

"Self harm."

"Yes, mostly," said the nurse as she nodded towards John. "I take it you are already aware. Substance abuse and self harm are two very serious problems, and we would like to keep Sherlock in for at least a few days so that we can look after him during the period of withdrawal. We will also be referring Sherlock to a psychiatrist–"

John shook his head. "He's not going to like that. Bloody idiot sure needs it though."

"We are very worried about him. A) because of his current stable, but weak, state and b) because these very serious problems almost never tend to be the main issue, there is always a much more concerning underlying matter, such as abuse, mental illness and other triggers. We are going to explore that over the next few days. I have to disclose this information and breach patient confidentiality because Sherlock has no other choice now as he is putting both himself and other people in danger."

"I understand. I'm a _doctor_," John informed her.

Lestrade breathed heavily, John seemed slightly irked, so the detective decided to speak up between the two medical professionals. "Thank you for helping him. If it weren't for you... he'd be gone."

"It was a close call, I admit," agreed the nurse.

John looked around the diminutive room contemplatively. He bit his thin lips and gently massaged his soft temples. Desperately, he tried to keep his composure.

"Hmm, can we see him now?" inquired John resolutely.

"He's not awake."

John exhaled noisily. "But can we see him? I need to see him, I need to know that he is genuinely breathing. I just need to be reassured by seeing him breathe."

"Well, I don't want to disturb him..."

"We're some of his only fucking friends," John angrily told her, before his angry tone turned to a beg. "_Please_."

The mousey nurse diplomatically nodded her head and beckoned the worried men to stand up; before leading them to the lonely ward where Sherlock was soundly sleeping.


	11. 72 Hours

_Wow! If these notes before the chapters annoy you then please say, I can put them at the end or whatever. BUT I had to say thank you for all the support and encouraging reviews. They keep me going!_

_Hmm, not sure what I think of this chapter. I do know where the story is going, I'm a bit wary of the writing here._

_I hope you enjoy it anyway!_

* * *

The nervous nurse lead them up a sterile staircase and into a ward, she proceeded to pull open a grotesquely patterned curtain and gestured for John and Lestrade to enter unattended.

John held his breath when he saw the spindly wires, tubes and machines, beeping menacingly, attached to Sherlock's motionless body. He swallowed. It was like he had sunk down to the ocean bed and all the light and stars had faded away. John blinked repeatedly to ensure that this awful sight was not clouded in a daydream. No. This was reality.

Lestrade felt guilty staring at the unknowing man. He felt guilty that he might have been able to prevent this relapse if he had not been occupied with his job. He felt guilty that John had to rush to the hospital. He felt guilty that the detective was tranquilly asleep, but internally, or emotionally, he was in a great deal of pain.

Lestrade felt guilt rush over him.

"It's my fault John. It's _all_ my fault. I apologise," gulped Lestrade.

John shook his head regretfully. "No one could have predicted this. It's not your fault Greg."

Lestrade nodded in acceptance. Unfortunately, hearing John say his name properly hurt him. Greg was his birth name, yes. Sherlock was just about the only person that didn't remember such a simple and ordinary name, but Sherlock had remembered. Only when he was nearly dying. If they would have lost him, Lestrade's first name could have been his pained final word.

Greg could have been the last sound that ever passed through Sherlock's cupid bow lips.

John was angry and bitter. He wondered how the detective could harm himself so selfishly. John thought that maybe he was truly a sociopath.

No.

_Definitely not._

Possibly, he was just unbelievably messed up.

"What are we going to do with you, kid?" whispered Lestrade to the silent man.

Watching Sherlock sleep was as weird and abnormal as seeing a Landmark you have dreamed of seeing your whole life. No one could quite believe it.

"I'm actually looking forward to telling him that he has to see a psychiatrist," joked John, trying to improve the depressing mood.

Lestrade chuckled dryly. "The bastard had it coming."

"Do you think that we could have a look?" asked John.

"Have a look?" questioned Lestrade.

"You know what I mean. He cuts on his legs to try to hide it..."

"So you want to check?"

"I'm curious."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well," started Lestrade, "It seems wrong, but I have to admit, I'm dead curious as well."

"It's wrong."

"Not really."

"He'll never know. Well, knowing Sherlock, he might just actually. Still, there's no harm in looking. I have to see."

"I take it that's only bloody natural, you're a doctor."

John wavered for a moment next to the stationary Sherlock. Nervously, he contemplated whether he should check the man's possibly scarred legs by lifting the thin hospital sheets off and observing the damage.

"Right then..." John began as he moved towards the sheet and gently removed it from its position. He slowly lifted it.

John dropped it.

The movement was sudden and unexpected.

However, it startled him.

"For God's sake! If you dare, I swear I will scream," a baritone voice snapped from the uncomfortable bed.

John beamed. "_Sherlock_," he breathed in rejoice.

"That _is_ my name," he muttered sarcastically. The man was clearly exhausted and struggling to stay awake; his eyes remained closed.

Lestrade managed an encouraging smile, and he sighed in utter relief when he saw Sherlock breathing and moving delicately.

He was still frail and weak. Unfortunately, he looked skeletal and ill. His pale, icy skin made him appear like he was old. Almost like he was fading away.

"Why the hell am I in this distasteful decorated... _hospital_?"

"_Sherlock_," whined Lestrade. "You bastard. Overdosed on some recreational shit. Had to pick you off the floor outside your house."

"Yeah... I'm pretty sure you don't remember much mate."

Sherlock merely groaned slightly.

"Why did you do it?" gulped John questioningly.

Sherlock shrugged very slightly. Enough to show his consuming sadness.

That wasn't how happy people shrugged.

"You have to tell us," ordered John.

"Why?"

"Because, even if you don't tell us, you'll be seeing a shrink from now on. Can't keep everything silent. Have to tell someone."

Sherlock's mind was foggy. He had clouded memories of the events, but he knew he would piece the puzzle together eventually. He groaned and moaned when John mentioned a shrink. A psychiatrist. Really? He wondered why that ridiculous proposition would be necessary. He. Was. Fine.

_He told himself that everyday._

"That's good," said Sherlock quietly without thinking.

"What?" choked John.

It then occurred to him that Lestrade and him should let Sherlock rest. It was late. He clearly was not going to feel fine after the dramatic events of the day. He needed to relax, no matter how tempted John was to shout at him.

For Sherlock Holmes to agree to see a psychiatrist and that the idea was _good, _was enough to warn John that something was wrong.

Actually, many things were _wrong_.

"Did I say _good_?"

"On that note... I think we'd better let you rest. I'll let that nurse know you're awake," said John reassuringly.

"_Nurse_? What nurse?"

They ignored Sherlock's desperate attempts to speak. The man needed to get some much-needed sleep.

"Sherlock, relax for a bit," ordered Lestrade. "You'll be in this place for a while."

"I refuse to stay."

"Tough luck," John replied bluntly.

John did not want to leave the suffering man, alas he had to. It was for vital for Sherlock's benefit.

* * *

John had wanted to stay by Sherlock's side in the hospital, but they assured John (who was very, very worried) that Sherlock would be safe. Although he was hesitant to leave his best friend, he decided that he could not do much to help him by sitting next to his bed and holding his hand for the 72 hour stay.

Worrying away from the hospital reduced the stress somewhat.

He said goodbye to the detective and Lestrade. The hospital was extremely crowded and busy with many injured and ill people; he felt like he was swimming against the strong sea waves when trying to escape and get back to Baker Street.

Now he could worry about Sherlock at home.

Wherever he was, he would be irrevocably worrying about John.

That was inevitable.

* * *

It was 8 o'clock on a Wednesday morning. Sherlock was still implausibly tired. His eyes were full of sleep, forcing him to close them again.

He was craving. That was unavoidable.

It required a lot of effort to avoid the itching, craving sensation.

He had found sleeping difficult; he barely managed. He was constantly on edge. Pain flourished through his body, and he ached profusely. He had not been given any morphine. Of course, after his overdose, it would be very dangerous to feed his craving addiction with any opiate-based drugs. Plus, it would probably harm him even more to be given any more drugs of that class.

He couldn't help but panic when he looked at the exact time. _8 o'clock_. The psychiatrist would be in Sherlock's administered room any moment.

He'd never had an appointment with a psychiatrist before.

Anxiety. That was a symptom of withdrawal, but Sherlock also felt extremely anxious at the thought of the appointment.

'_Hopefully the psychiatrist will forget to come,'_ thought Sherlock.

"Mr Holmes?" an abnormally high-pitched, male voice asked from the distant corner.

'_Damn_,' Sherlock internally cursed.

"Yes. What do you want?"

"Mr Holmes, hello. I'm Doctor Dellow. Would you prefer to be called Sherlock."

"My full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes," he informed the weedy, small man.

"Okay, William–"

"However, I would prefer you to call me Sherlock."

"Right sorry," the man corrected himself. "Sherlock, then, I'm Doctor Dellow and I will be your appointed psychiatrist."

Sherlock loudly scoffed.

"Now, I understand that some people feel intimidated by the thought of a _big, scary psychiatrist_ visiting them, but–"

"I am certainly not a two-year old. You do not work with children, you're an adult psychiatrist, so I would prefer not to be treated like some naïve adolescent."

The psychiatrist was relatively young, middle thirties. He'd obviously only recently achieved all the necessary degrees to become a psychiatrist.

He still seemed okay. Manageable.

Sherlock sat in his bed and deduced the psychiatrist, but was oblivious to the fact of the psychiatrist analysing him.

"Listen Sherlock. I do not mean to say this in a rude or demanding way, but I can help you. However I can't do that if you do not comply. So it is vital that you listen to me and talk to me. We want to get you the help that you need and deserve."

Sherlock resisted the temptation to scoff or make a snark-ridden remark. This man was not so bad.

Maybe he would have to comply. If he didn't do it for himself he would do it for John. John had wanted him to see a psychiatrist for a while. At least this might make him proud.

Sherlock breathed deeply. "Sorry."

He resisted the urge to fiddle with his fingers. He could comply with this man, but that didn't mean that he had to let him in and allow him to see every emotion that Sherlock was feeling. He did not need to know how anxious Sherlock was feeling.

"You're anxious."

"What? I'm _not_."

"Clearly so, you are resisting the urge to move. You're very still. Unnaturally so."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You're quite good."

"I did a bit of extra work on my _deducing tactics_ this morning, I'll admit. I know who you are. Seen your website, read The Personal Blog of John Watson. It's great stuff. I didn't want to disappoint."

"I'm impressed. You're good. Very good," Sherlock nodded. The tiny man was alright. "Not as good as me, of course."

"Of course. You're the great Sherlock Holmes."

The doctor was friendly and comforting.

"I suppose I should thank you for the compliment. However, let's remain professional. I am not overly keen on the idea of this whole... thing."

Quickly, the man nodded. He flicked hastily through some notes attached to a clipboard. He grabbed a wooden seat and bought it close to Sherlock's bed; he sat down calmly.

"So, Sherlock. I want to talk about your current mental state mostly. You seem okay physically, everything was fine in the blood tests. you're underweight, which is worrying. We can talk about that later though. You were admitted to the hospital yesterday afternoon after taking a relatively serious overdose on recreational drugs. Morphine, we imagine."

"I have already been informed of that."

"Sherlock, can you tell me why you overdosed? Did you do it intentionally?"

Sherlock moistened his dry lips. He frowned at the man and then stared down at the stiff, uncomfortable sheets on the hospital bed.

"I wanted to feel numb again."

"Again?"

"Could you be specific, please. I hate to admit it, but I'm excessively tired."

"Of course, sorry," he said apologetically. "You say that you wanted to feel numb _again_. That suggests that you were used to feeling numb, or at least that you are used to the numbing sensation of the high you experience from the drugs."

"I'm a high-functioning sociopath."

"Do you have a diagnosis for that?"

Sherlock sighed noisily. Of all the times he had said that, this psychiatrist was the only person to check if Sherlock was telling the truth. Other people just presumed he was wrong. and others believed him and felt intimidated.

Besides, Sherlock knew that he would have his medical history on record.

"I used to think I was. Had no professional diagnosis. I didn't feel anything, started to..." Sherlock trailed off. He had never properly spoken to anyone about this. He had angrily spoken to John for a few minutes about a week ago, but that was it.

"You can continue. It's safe here."

The persistence of staff who indoctrinated patients with the idea of a 'safe place' was slightly frightening.

"I started to hurt myself... self harm... because I wanted to feel. When I was fourteen. Recently though, I've started to _feel_ again," the detective said solemnly. "I don't like it."

"So you'd do anything to numb it?"

"_Precisely_," Sherlock spat reluctantly.

"What emotions have you been feeling recently?"

"I don't know. Just emotions."

"Do you know why you have felt them?"

"I don't know exactly what triggered it, but I just... recalled some unwanted memories that I had managed to delete."

"Delete, you speak like you are a machine," said the doctor.

"I. Am."

"You're not," he assured. "And Sherlock, what were these memories?"

Sherlock felt his skin heat up like it had been lit with a match. Ignited, and he was now burning. He didn't know if it was embarrassment, fear or the pain of remembering. He still had trouble recognising these unusual emotions. Recalling certain memories brought him a sense of devastation and monstrously sentimental nostalgia. He detested remembering.

_Let no one in._

_Let no one in._

_Let no one in._

"Nothing at all, really," Sherlock quaked in a panic. "Just stuff from my past."

"What happened?"


	12. Distract Distract Distract

_I wrote this over a week ago and I'm very sorry for the delay, my internet has been slow because I buggered the settings, I've been busy revising and I've been tiring myself walking around London the last few days._

_Also, I wirte something in this chapter which may or may not come across as controversial, and this is definitely not something I am writing that I would do, it was just for the story and I tried to research it, but I was trying to write some interest background for Sherlock, that has not been speculated before, about the third Holmes brother and all_

_I really appreciate the kind and helpful reviews, keep 'em coming!_

* * *

Doctor Dellow tapped his cheap pen rhythmically against his notepad. "Take all the time you need."

"Time for what?" asked Sherlock snappily.

"You need to let me know what these memories are, otherwise it's difficult for me to help you."

"That's ridiculous," hummed Sherlock. "I do not need, or want, your help."

"That is what I am here for; it is my job," assured doctor Dellow. He at least attempted being comforting, but his efforts seemed to result in vaguely patronising behaviour. "You could really make it easier for us both."

"Would it pain you to attempt your job with someone other than me," Sherlock spat.

"We have an hour session, but you have spoken for just under ten minutes. I know it is difficult. It's completely normal being: scared, embarrassed or confused," he said softly. "I need you to speak, Sherlock. This will help me to make a diagnosis for any possible mental health conditions and prescribe appropriate medication."

Sherlock grimaced visibly at the thought. The idea of taking medicine was not unappealing, but to someone who did not want their judgement severely clouded, unless he had specifically chosen to numb himself recreationally, it was daunting. He would refuse to admit that. He was stubborn.

"I oppose to any prescriptions."

"It's funny, you did not strike me as the type to refuse medication," doctor Dellow said wryly.

Sherlock scoffed. "I want to end this appointment immediately," he demanded. "Leave. Bye bye."

"I mean this metaphorically, but why are you building walls? It's not healthy."

"Do I _also_ not strike you as someone who cares about being healthy?" Sherlock mumbled sarcastically, emulating the psychiatrist's tone.

"Do you care about your health?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't."

They sat there, in a small, white-washed, sanitary hospital room staring at the other person in their one-to-one session. Sizing one another up. It was difficult for Sherlock. He squinted and tried to make a deduction based on the man's clothing. He was wearing a uniform. His skin was clear. Sherlock concentrated. This was tough. The most complicated deduction Sherlock could manage was that he had a shower at 6 o'clock this morning.

That should have been simple.

Sherlock assumed that his talents were not faulting, he was reclining in a hospital bed. It was always difficult to deduce when he was almost lying down. He needed the stimulation of his powerful walking and his exciting, jolting movements.

"Sherlock," the psychiatrist started. "Please let me help you."

Sherlock shakily listened to doctor Dellow. John would be so unquestionably disappointed with him for refusing to co-operate. However, that did not mean that the consulting detective could not delay from the stuff that was, as he hated to admit, sentimental to him. Sherlock would try to distract the doctor as much as he possibly could.

"Be specific. What do you want to know?"

"What happened?"

"No, no, no. More specific than that."

The doctor exhaled loudly and scratched the side of his head confusedly. He flicked through his notes: Sherlock Holmes – _what are you so afraid of?_

"Okay, why don't we start with your childhood? What was it like? Did you have a good relationship with your family? Were you a happy child?" he seemed intrigued.

"It was _happy-ish_. I was raised well..."

"Feel free to elaborate, I will sit and listen. Tell it like a story."

"But it is not, it is not some fairytale," he retorted. "It's real life."

"Then tell it like real life."

"Okay, then at least you can shut up for once and sit and listen, a bit like a child listens to a story at bedtime. Hush," he started uncertainly.

Where to start?

"Yes, I recall it being joyful. Although, I don't remember much of it, because it was quite a while ago. My parents were always kind and caring to myself and my two other siblings: Mycroft and Sherrinford. They were great, my parents. They are still great. Kept us safe and relatively reclusive until we reached adolescence. God knows what they were thinking trying to get us to meet other people, it was something to do with _friends_. Probably a mistake seeing as it never worked. Caring and that lark. We used to go on to a family holiday to this terrible farm-house they owned up in Yorkshire."

Doctor Dellow perked up at the comment about Yorkshire. "Ah, I have family in Yorkshire. Where was the farm?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the interruption. He had hushed him.

"Just outside of a fishing town called Whitby: Sleights."

"Oh yes, I know of it. I'm most familiar with Leeds though. Visit it regularly."

"Right. That's extremely interesting, now back to my life," he hadn't meant to be rude, alas he was. He wasn't even fussed about his life, but he had told him to be quiet and he had ignored him. It irked Sherlock. Doctor Dellow noted this. "It was nice. I appreciated it. We'd go to Whitby most nights, wander around the quaint shops. It had a very Gothic culture there, it used to intrigue me. There was a west and an east cliff, some old whale bones and an abbey. It wasn't much, but we loved it there. They loved it there. I think my parents still visit it often. There's not much I remember of the place. I have not been there since... since I was twenty."

"Why haven't you been back there?" he asked.

"Long story."

"I'm listening."

"Well, mostly because I couldn't be bothered. However, there's also something else. When we went on these holidays it was about the only time we saw Sherrinford. He was older than both me and Mycroft."

"Why did you only see him on these holidays?" Doctor Dellow asked inquisitively, his pen in his hand while he tapped it monotonously on the notepad.

"What is this supposed to do? Am I supposed to 'get in touch with my feelings' or whatever that lark is?"

"Sherlock, stop changing the subject. Why did you only see him when you went to Yorkshire?"

"He was _difficult_. Okay, he had Downs Syndrome."

"And your mother gave him up... for _adoption_?"

"Precisely. Don't sound so disgusted about it. I have no view on the whole affair, but it seemed that my parents lacked the resources to give Sherrinford a normal life, I'm sure it would not have been difficult, but I hate to imagine my mother struggling any more than she already did with her job that she gave up later on. He was extraordinary, a nice boy, a nice man. Come to think of it, none of us were particularly ordinary. They did not detest him, they _loved_ him. My parents were normal, but their children weren't. And caring for Sherrinford was especially difficult for them to manage, although putting him up for adoption was not ideal it was the only options. We saw him a few times a year and when we went on short holidays."

"Would you not have liked to see him more often?"

"No. There were enough people living in my house with me, my parents and Mycroft. We got to see him on those holidays, like I just said and clearly you were not listening. They did love him, they just found it immensely difficult to look after him."

"I understand."

"I do not. However, I cannot understand emotion."

"Sherlock, I am a psychiatrist. I can tell you are not a sociopath so stop denying yourself emotions."

Sherlock rolled his cobalt eyes at the doctors dull comment.

He was did not find it hurtful to think of these memories, he should probably tell the clueless doctor that.

"Anyway, we went on a holiday to the same location when I was twenty, he was left alone for a minute and the rocks on the cliff were eroding. Not supposed to go close to the edge. But he did. You can imagine what happened."

"Wow, I'm so sorry. That's a great loss –"

"Oh, he's not _dead_," Sherlock said as if it was obvious.

"Then what is he?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me."

"It must have been pasted on the front cover of many newspapers."

"Yeah, I'm sure it was," mumbled the doctor Dellow. As he scribbled something down. "Sherlock, that was around fifteen years ago or more. I wouldn't remember it."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if to say that it was obvious he wouldn't remember. Well, it was. Evidently he wouldn't have paid attention to it, and doctor Dellow was slightly younger than Sherlock. He would not have understood the vital importance of observation as a teenager; he was not Sherlock though. He was ordinary.

"He made some friend, so he was not completely alone. Sherrinford unintentionally hurt him and caused him some amount of brain damage because he pushed him. He didn't fall over the edge completely. Not enough to kill him... he was young though, this boy, about ten. He slipped, fell a bit because of the crumbling rocks, not completely though. My brother obviously unintentionally hurt him."

"So what happened, did he go to prison?"

"No. There was some legal nonsense that I could not be bothered to pay attention to, but the family did not want to press charges due to Sherrinford's downs syndrome, they were surprisingly understanding, although for some reason they were very upset."

"Their child was severely hurt. Of course they's be upset..."

"_Why_?" he asked carelessly.

"Why don't you see him any more then?"

"I just don't. It's monotonous to keep in contact with unimportant people."

"That seems a little harsh."

"It does? I should probably apologise, but I will not waste my time doing that."

"I presumed he was either dead or in prison, sorry for the assumptions."

"You should be," said Sherlock. Doctor Dellow looked taken aback, he would have expected at least a _thank you_.

Doctor Dellow tapped his pen lightly, but the dull, repetitive noise sounded manic in Sherlock's mind. He looked at Sherlock and Sherlock returned the suspicious glance.

Sherlock had been rambling on about something that did not really concern him. Indeed, it did sound like an important event, but it had not affected him and for the majority of his life he did not think about Sherrinford. He was just another person who happened to be family, it was the same with the rest of them. It's just that his loving parents were keen on keeping in contact with Sherlock and the other children, to his knowledge, they still visited Sherrinford.

"Are you being honest when you say that this did not affect you?"

"Scout's honour," whispered Sherlock flatly. "I just mentioned it. It came up. I don't know why."

"Did they know about your self harm? Your family?"

"No. Well, Mycroft does, but he only found out recently. John told him," Sherlock informed doctor Dellow.

"Does that concern you?"

"It _annoys_ me."

"Okay. Can we talk a bit more about your past."

"I'm bored."

"And I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance. He was properly peeved that he had to discuss this. He had to think of John. He couldn't let him down. He could never let John Watson down.

"Ask me anything. I'll answer. Not that I want to."

The psychiatrist nodded shyly.

"When did you first start the detective business."

"_Consulting detective. _Young. Well I started investigating when possible around the age of eleven, but I started the consulting thing after I graduated with a chemistry degree. That did not work to well though, until Lestrade helped me out and got me on some cold cases, which, of course, I solved almost instantly."

"DI Lestrade was here yesterday, was he not?" Doctor Dellow asked, and Sherlock nodded slightly. "When did you meet him."

Sherlock blinked a few times, and remembered that first morning with Lestrade, being interviewed in an office, craving drugs, hurting inside and outside. He was in a dreadful state.

"I was in the police station after they'd discovered me using and possessing the drugs. I don't remember much of it."

"Let's talk about your use of drugs," stated the doctor. It did not seem to cross his mind that it might be extremely difficult for Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked.

"Why?" he questioned, doctor Dellow gave him a look that told him to shut up, normally the scrawny man would not listen to those perturbing looks, but he could not be bothered to fight.

"When did you first start taking morphine, or any drugs."

"Does that matter?" spat Sherlock.

"You'd be surprised how much it matters," he informed Sherlock.

"I was in my first year at University. It was my choice. I did it as an experiment. Don't go and presume it was because of peer pressure."

"_An experiment_?"

"Of sorts. I just wanted to stop my brain from thinking, see if I could slow down. I was different to other students there, so I wanted to feel ordinary for a moment. It became a slightly bad habit."

Doctor Dellow bit his lip. "Did you get bullied?"

Sherlock blinked and stared at the ground. He paused for a moment. "No."

Sherlock felt tired. His thin arms were weak and, although he would never admit it, all he wanted to do was retreat into a tiny ball shape and sleep.

"You know, many actors are terrible, terrible liars, yet what they do is technically lie for a living. And you – you're a talented detective, but if someone is trying to detect something about you, and they understand what they are doing, you are terrible at hiding things. They can detect anything about you."

"Is that a long and over-complicated way of saying you believe that I am lying."

"I don't think I need to confirm that."

Doctor Dellow folded his arms in a smug fashion. He quietly snorted, and he was clearly hoping that would go unnoticed.

"It was not particularly bullying. They just hated me, and they had a good reason," Sherlock said tentatively.

"What could have justified it?" asked the psychiatrist.

"Well –" Sherlock thought for a moment. "I was different."

"How did it make you feel?"

"Ugh, it had no significant effect on me."

"You've said that a couple of times now."

"Possibly because it didn't, moron."

"Okay, but have you ever considered that sub –"

"Subconsciously, it has _never affected me,_" bellowed Sherlock.

Doctor Dellow nodded, and made a futile gesture of lowering his hands to tell Sherlock that he needed to calm down. He sighed elaborately and then continued to flick through his crumpled notebook while Sherlock's face was probably turning into a blazing red colour with anger – or embarrassment even.

"What else '_hasn't affected you_?'" doctor Dellow sarcastically asked. Sherlock considered that any of his previous concepts about this man were absolutely false. He strongly disliked him and his, still, condescending tone - despite Sherlock calling him out on his patronising attitude earlier on in the appointment.

Sherlock did not like these unwanted, new emotions, but he also had not got the faintest idea how to handle the feelings that _he_ was currently feeling.

In a fit of rage and confusion Sherlock blurted out a handle of painful moments that he desperately wished he could change.

After he had spoken he bemusedly raised his hand to cover his mouth.

It was too late.

His secrets were free and open to the world. They could move through the world like leaves in the gusty blow of the wind and doctor Dellow simply sat there, rhythmically tapping his tacky pen. He was shocked.

* * *

_Thought I would leave you on a cheeky cliffhanger! _

_I feel like some of you might think I was discriminating people who have downs syndrome, and I have to clarify that I was not. I wanted to create an interesting, easy-to-elaborate on and a new theory for the third Holmes brother. It is simply random speculation for the purpose of writing, and I tried to show that I, personally, do not think it is right to put children with differences up for adoption. However, my characters might not see that as a problem. I' am mostly trying to do the characters justice, but if that does result in me seeming terrible I apologise, I am not some uneducated person, please don't think I'm horrible. and now I sound like I am whining! Sorry about that, I just had to clarify that I think of people with illnesses like down syndrome, or absolutely any illness/ genetic condition etc. as equals. Because, well, they are. I don't discriminate anyone._

_Flashbacks to come, stay tuned and stay safe!_


End file.
